


What We Deserve

by tabbygyson, UnchartedCloud



Series: What We Deserve [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Also there are OCs, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, And eventually smut, Bellamy Blake & Clarke Griffin are Best Friends, Bisexual Clarke Griffin, Bisexual Disaster Clarke Griffin, Bisexual Raven Reyes, Canon Queer Relationship, Canon Rewrite, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death Fix, Clarke Griffin & Raven Reyes are Best Friends, Complete, Endgame Clarke Griffin/Lexa, F/F, Finished, Fluff and Angst, Gay Disaster Lexa (The 100), Not Canon Compliant, Octavia Blake & Clarke Griffin are Best Friends, POV Clarke Griffin, Queer Friendly, Sassy Raven Reyes, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Clarke Griffin/Lexa, These idiots are in love, did we mention it's slow burn?, the family Heda, we fixed season 3, you'll love them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 130,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23900431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabbygyson/pseuds/tabbygyson, https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnchartedCloud/pseuds/UnchartedCloud
Summary: Four months after the fall of Mt. Weather, Lexa's hunters catch up to Clarke in the wilderness. Azgeda is on the warpath, and rather than leave Wanheda to their machinations, the Commander has her dragged kicking and biting to Polis for safekeeping. But a city ruled by one's betrayer is a gilded cage at best, and Clarke isn't about to be contained. With winter coming, she'll have to make a choice: to flee to the forest and kill the memory of Lexa forever, or embrace Wanheda and work alongside the woman she hates.A canon universe fic that picks up before the start of S3. Also known as Nobody Dies AU. (1/3)
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Series: What We Deserve [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722700
Comments: 184
Kudos: 615
Collections: The 100 Fix-Its and Rewrites





	1. Am I Your Enemy?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Welcome to Nobody Dies AU!
> 
> What you have pulled up on your screen is part one of three - the first 268 pages - of a massive fic we've been writing for the better part of two years. It started out as a way for us, a disaster gay and a garbage bi, to scratch that creative itch in a story written just for us. But what the heck. We can't be the only ones still mad about The 100 S3. 
> 
> Or maybe we are. Doesn't matter. Point is, we fixed it. 
> 
> The tags listed for this fic apply to Part One, which takes place in our version of (and more or less canon compliant, if not specifically canon) Polis. We've filled out the city with a few of our own characters, but have no fear: canon characters will arrive before too long (but also you'll love our OCs because they're adorable and awesome and one of them is a pirate queen). All three parts are told from Clarke's point of view, picking up post-wilderness-wandering.
> 
> There'll probably be a few more authors' notes where this one comes from, but the important thing is this: absolutely nobody dies. Well, some bad guys do, but no one important. And that's a promise.
> 
> We plan to post once a week (Wed/Fri) for the foreseeable future.
> 
> TW: Brief mentions of PTSD and anxiety. Also this is The 100, so. Yeah.
> 
> UPDATE: If you're here for the new E rating, skip to the last chapter. Everything else is rated M.

The rag tastes of sweat and grime.  
  
Four months - _four months_ \- she had been able to give them the slip. Four months! Every one of the twelve clans had riders scouring the forest looking for _Wanheda_ , the Commander of Death who had brought down the Mountain single handedly, and she had avoided them all for four months. Warriors, trackers, panthers, bears - none of them could get the better of her. _For four months_.  
  
And then came the cold. The temperature itself didn't much bother her; space is cold, and she had kept scraps of pelts that she couldn't trade to fashion into layers to insulate her jacket and bedroll. But she hadn't anticipated how quickly it would make food disappear. Bushes once heavy with berries shriveled; the nuts dropped by trees were long ago scattered. She found herself competing with squirrels and rabbits for weeks, which for a time made them easier to catch. But then the plants were gone, and her prey animals followed shortly thereafter. Even the predators disappeared, gone away to hibernate in advance of the coming winter. By the time the first frost fell, she felt like she was the only one walking these woods.  
  
So when the sound of thundering hooves woke her one morning, she knew exactly what it would mean. Her belly rumbled but she grabbed what little supplies she had, shoved them in her bag, and fled from the rocky outcrop that had become her home. They were fast, but she was smart; she avoided them like she'd avoided the others. But they had food, and horses, and worked in shifts. She had nothing but a few strips of salted rabbit, a handful of nuts, and boots that were starting to wear thin.  
  
She didn't remember them finding her, which was perhaps the most infuriating part. They'd driven her up the mountain, higher than she had ever been since crashing to earth over a year ago, and the air only got colder. She remembered being weak, exhausted. Cold. There had been snow - up there, at that elevation, water would freeze sooner than it would on the valley floor. It crunched under foot, and shocked her tongue when she ate it, desperate for food and water. But the riders kept coming, and the cold kept seeping, and the last thing she remembers is her foot slipping, gashing her knee open on a rock hidden beneath the ice. Her legs folded, her feet and hands too cold to push herself back up. Her face burned, it _burned_ in the wind and the snow and the cold and...then it was dark. There was a flash of red, a standard held over a black-clad rider, and then nothing.  
  
When she woke, she was back in the valley. Tied over the back of a horse like a sack of grain, bound by hand and feet, gagged with this rancid rag, she was the prisoner of a group of four trackers that wore the colors of the Commander of the Twelve Clans herself. _Heda Leksa._ She thrashed so hard then she fell off the back of the horse, and despite having the breath knocked out of her and stars spark behind her eyes, she'd managed to get back on her feet before her captors apprehended her again.  
  
And they'd brought her here. She should have marveled at the gates of Polis, when they entered. She should have marveled at the life that was here, vibrant even in the last weeks of fall, houses and shops as far as her eye could see. She should have marveled at the tower that stood at the center of it all, stretching high into the sky like they did in the photographs of Earth's cities before the bombs. Instead, she could feel only rage. With every fall of every hoof her anger seethed deeper, hotter, until she was pulled off the horse, escorted into the tower, and onto a lift that took her up.  
  
The rag tastes of sweat and grime, but it's blood she imagines on her tongue as they force her to her knees in the throne room.  
  
It is a great hall, fluted with sconces that cast warm, bright firelight across the red carpet that cuts down its center. At the far end, behind a dark, heavy chair made of lashed driftwood, windows open onto a balcony that overlooks the city below it - a view that should strike awe into any who witness it. But she doesn’t notice any of it. She has eyes only for the woman who stands before the throne, speaking with an older man and dressed in black. A red cape, the color of her nightmares, spills to the floor from over one shoulder. Only when her knees hit the ground does she look up, a look of shock, and then anger, flashing through her green eyes.  
  
" _What is this?"_ Lexa demands of the man who led the group of riders into the room. Her Trigedasleng is fast, furious, but there have been quite a few Trigedasleng lessons in the last sixteen weeks. " _I told you she was not to be harmed!"_  
  
" _We haven't touched her, Heda_ ," the lead rider says, bowing before the Commander as she crosses the carpet towards him. " _She fought hard. Nearly died of frostbite by the time we found her_."  
  
Something else passes across the Commander's eyes, stopping her short - but it's gone before it can be made sense of.  
  
"Untie her," she says in English, and her eyes land once more on the woman kneeling before her. "And leave us."  
  
The room is quiet as the lead rider stoops to do just that, the bonds loosened first from her wrists, then her ankles. The gag is the last thing to go, and then he and the others retreat from the room.  
  
"Everyone," she says, and turns to look pointedly at the man she'd been speaking to previously. He hesitates, looking at her warily, before he too bows and leaves. Leaving just the two women alone.

"Clarke," Lexa breathes, as though she can't quite believe that it's her.

Clarke's stomach lurches at her name in Lexa's mouth, the sound of the other woman's voice making her heart beat faster. She growls, louder than she intends, at the sensation. She _hates_ Lexa. The woman who betrayed her - her and everyone she loves. The woman who drove her to murder hundreds of people with a single flip of a switch. How Clarke felt in the past about Lexa is just that: the past. How she feels now is white, searing rage.  
  
"Lexa." Clarke grits through her teeth. She massages her jaw - she hasn't spoken aloud in weeks. "What do you want?"

"The Ice Nation has been looking for you," the Commander says, watching to ensure that the man who stood by the throne has indeed left the room. "I wanted to find you first."  
  
The name is only vaguely familiar to Clarke. The Twelve Clans all have names based on their domains, but she rarely has had a reason to venture beyond _Trikru's_ land in the last year. From the tone of Lexa's voice, however, it doesn’t sound like the Ice Nation is a particularly friendly bunch.  
  
The woman herself is quiet a moment, conflict barely hidden behind her eyes. Then her shoulders relax ever so slightly, the veneer of the Commander fading for just a moment as she kneels before Clarke and offers a hand. "Can you stand?"

Clarke resists the urge to slap Lexa's hand away. Instead she just ignores it, and pushes herself up with a grunt. Her knee still hurts, and being thrown around like so many saddlebags hasn't helped matters.  
  
"Why..." Her voice is hoarse. She clears her throat and tries again. "Why would you care who's looking for me? You'll excuse me if I have a hard time believing I was toted here on the back of a horse for my well-being."

Lexa's expression darkens as she stands. "They were supposed to be gentler than they were," she says. Her wrists clasp behind her back, and the air of Heda - so briefly gone - is back. "I could not tell them who you were; I was not certain I could trust them to deliver you safely if they knew your identity."

Clarke sighs. She wants to stand her ground; demand that Lexa answer for leaving them at Mount Weather. For leaving her. She wants a lot of things. But more than anything right now she's _exhausted_. "Well you have me here now, so tell me. Who are The Ice Nation, and what do they want from me?”

A wry twist sets into Lexa's lips. "Allies, presumably," she says. "But news of _Wanheda_ has spread quickly. Some feel that the one who brought down the Mountain would bring significant political power to whoever she chooses to ally with, and the Ice Nation's queen is..." A beat. "Ambitious.  
  
"But we can discuss this later. The important part is that you're safe." Her arms drop back to her sides, and she starts for the main door. "Come, Clarke. You must be tired. I've had rooms prepared for you, and can have food sent up."

 _Safe_. Clarke scoffs. As if she could ever feel safe in this place.  
  
"I don't know why you think you can have your people kidnap me, drag me here against my will, and then offer me 'rooms' and food as if that's how you treat all your guests." Clarke laughs and surprises herself at how callous it sounds. "Maybe it is how you treat all your guests. I suppose it would make sense, that this is your version of hospitality."  
  
Clarke looks over at the balcony, briefly wonders if she could jump down. The trip up here was hazy, and it was definitely _up_...but how far? Even if she weren't very high up, she doubts her knee would hold up after a stunt like that. It's barely holding her up now.  
  
She takes a step back from Lexa and leans against the closest wall, tries to subtly place all her weight on her uninjured leg. Better. Her head still feels foggy - from anger, but she has to admit from hunger and sleep deprivation, too. Anger and adrenaline were enough to spur her on before, but now that she's warm and her muscles have relaxed for the first time in months, it takes her a moment to recover her resolve.  
  
Lexa is staring at her. "What?" Clarke snaps, her face coloring. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me why I'm here. Certainly I'm not going anywhere with _you_."

Lexa's face remains impassive, but there's the slightest edge to her words as she says, "I can have one of my handmaids take you, if you would prefer."

"What I'd _prefer_ is to be a hundred miles from you. I'd _prefer_ to leave. Now." Clarke knows she could never make it out of the building, let alone out of the city. Not like this. One night would at least allow her to rest, and give her time to plan a way out. "But it doesn't look like I have much of a choice."

It's clear that there's a response on Lexa's lips as soon as she finishes speaking, but something makes her hold back. She looks down, sighs ever so quietly. The steel usually set into her spine sags a little, and the veneer of _Heda_ slips again. "We have much to talk about, Clarke," Lexa says quietly. "I know this. But it will be easier to do so once you've had time to recover."  
  
She looks up at Clarke, and though her back straightens again, her expression remains soft. "I will send a healer up to look to your wounds. I hope you will let her help. I will send for food as well, and bath water, if you would like it."

A hundred biting replies come to Clarke’s mind, but she’s too exhausted to voice them.  
  
“Do whatever you want. _Heda_.” Clarke doesn’t stop herself from spitting the word out. “But I’m not following you anywhere.”  
  
Clarke pushes herself forward from the wall. She raises her eyebrows at Lexa expectantly.

Lexa's expression doesn't change as her head moves in the slightest of nods. "Very well," she says, and calls for a guard. When one answers - an imposing figure, surely a foot taller than either of them and dressed in armor that is cleaner and heavier than any Clarke has seen on a Grounder - she gives a short order in quick Trigedasleng, and the guard leaves again without answering.  
  
"I am not your enemy, Clarke," she says, watching the blonde though she now faces the door, expectant. "And you are not my prisoner. I hope that in time you will see that."

Less than five minutes pass before the doors to the throne room open again, this time admitting a figure much slighter than the first. It is a woman, about their age, with dark hair and dark eyes. Where most Grounders Clarke has experienced are worn, made rugged and dirty by the stress of their lives in the wilderness, this woman is soft. It is clear, from a moment's glance, that she would not have a single kill mark cut into her back.  
  
"Elena," Lexa says to her, " _Taka Wanheda du ha pado."_  
  
" _Sha, Heda_."  
  
She turns to Clarke. "This is Elena, one of my most trusted hands. I place her at your disposal; whatever you need, she will find it for you."

“I...” Clarke hesitates. She was so focused on getting away from Lexa, she hadn’t considered how to navigate...handmaids? Is that what Lexa said?  
  
“Elena.” Clarke nods at her. “It’s nice to meet you. But I don’t need anything. Just someplace to rest.”

" _Sha, Wanheda_ ," Elena answers, and bends her head. "If you'll follow me, I can bring you to your room."

Clarke shakes her head at the name, but allows Elena to lead her out of the room.

"Rest now, Clarke," Lexa says as she passes. "We will speak again later."  
  
The hall beyond the doors is bustling with activity. Voices that she couldn't hear while in the throne room's cavernous space now surround her as men and women pass purposefully across its floors. There is so much of it and so little context that she can't pick out more than a few words of Trigedasleng, but the clothing they wear is indicative enough. Like Elena, the people Clarke sees are a world apart from the Grounders she has thus far encountered. They are not war-painted fighters in road leathers; they wear linen tunics and dresses, woven belts and robes - and they're even dyed, in colors brighter than any Clarke has seen since coming to Earth. Even Elena, she now notices, is draped in blue; a happy break, after all the black and red of _Heda's_ domain.  
  
"You'll be staying on the dignitary level," Elena tells her over her shoulder even as she leads Clarke to a stairwell. "You will have complete privacy there, and the floor is well guarded. You'll be able to rest in peace, without fear of interruption."

 _Well guarded_. Clarke hopes Elena means by guards less imposing than the guard in Lexa’s throne room, but she doubts it. It certainly feels like she’s a prisoner, no matter what Lexa says.  
  
“Your clothes,” Clarke says aloud instead. She winces as she starts up the stairs, her knee protesting each step with a soft but sharp pang up the length of her leg. “They’re beautiful. I’ve never seen that color blue here on...well, before.”

Elena's smile becomes visible as they reach a landing, and turn to continue upwards. She holds her skirt up as she ascends, just as Clarke always imagined the ladies she encountered in her literature classes would. "It is a specialty of _Trishanakru_ ," she tells her. "They make the dye out of the plants that live there. It used to be a color impossible to find this far north, but...Polis has been well served by the coalition."  
  
The designated floor is three flights up and, by the time they reach it, Elena is also a little out of breath. From there, they pass several heavy wooden doors, all carved with intricate scenes of nature in all its forms, until they reach one that bears the likeness of an enormous, ancient tree. This Elena opens with a key produced from a disguised pocket in her dress and she steps aside to let Clarke in.  
  
Behind the heavy door stretches a space that is easily twice the size of any room she ever had on the Arc, and three times more luxurious. Directly before the door is a small sitting area with padded chairs, a low table, and an open fireplace. To the right, a bed made of yet more carved wood and piled with animal skins stands behind a set of dividers. To the left, a door that leads into what she could only guess was a wash room from what she could see from her position.  
  
"If you would like," Elena says, stepping by her into the room, "I can have a shirt sent up of the same color. It would match your eyes beautifully."

“Wow,” Clarke can’t help the word slipping from her lips as she takes everything in. It’s almost enough to make her reconsider escaping Polis as soon as possible. Almost.  
  
It’s been so long since Clarke has heard any other human voice, let alone one with genuine kindness in it, that it takes her a moment to register that Elena has asked her a question. Once her brain catches up, she’s horrified to feel her face begin to heat up.  
  
“That’s very kind of you to offer. I’m sure I must look like I’ve worn these clothes for months.” She does her best to smile for the other woman. It feels a lot more like a grimace, but it’s the best she can do. “But I doubt I’ll be awake much longer in any case. I think I just need to rest.”

"As you wish." Elena inclines her head. "Nevertheless, is there anything you would like once you wake? I can have it brought in the meantime, so it's ready for you."

“No, I’m fine.” Clarke glances around the room again and starts toward the fireplace. It’s not lit, but somehow it still feels warmer to be near it. “But thank you, Elena.”

"It's my pleasure, _Wanheda_." She offers Clarke the key. "I will leave you to your rest, then. If you have need of me, press the button there," she motions to a buzzer beside the door that looks positively ancient, "and it will alert me. There is also a guard stationed at either end of the hall, if you have need of one."  
  
Her duty complete, Elena bows. " _Ressup_ , _Wanheda._ "

Clarke closes the door behind Elena and leans against it for a moment, catching her breath.  
  
She had missed everyone so much at first. Raven, Octavia, Bellamy, even her mother. But after a few weeks went by, and then months, she had grown used to being alone. Not on purpose - the desire for solitude had crept up on her, to the extent that she hadn’t realized how much she craved it until just now. Until she was finally able to put a door between herself and other people.  
  
Clarke pauses at the window along the opposite side of the sitting area. They’re ancient, the glass practically yellow from age, but she can still see well enough. Her stomach reels. She’s not just far off the ground - she can’t even _see_ the ground. Her hopes of somehow getting out of this tower unseen all but disintegrate. She’ll have to come up with something else.  
  
There's no hope of going anywhere tonight, at any rate. Clarke wanders into the wash room and once again can’t stop herself from gaping. A beautiful, clawfoot tub sits to one side of the room while a counter made of what looks like marble on the other holds all manner of things. But what catches her eye is a wash basin, full of water, and several clean cloths already laid out neatly beside them.  
  
Clarke rolls her eyes. _Lexa_. She considers leaving them untouched, but shakes her head at herself. It would only hurt her chances of getting away if she didn’t tend to her knee.  
  
The clothes she’s been wearing for months - more like rags really than clothes, at this point - are easy to strip off. Clarke looks longingly at the tub, only half considering using the buzzer to ask Elena for bath water. She shakes off the notion and uses the water in the wash basin instead, still at least room temperature, to clean herself to the best of her ability and tend to her knee. The wound isn’t bad - a bit deep, but not too wide. She probably just bruised the bone, but better to be sure. Clarke knows all too well what little medical supplies can be found on Earth. An infected knee could easily kill her.  
  
She wraps her knee carefully, repurposing pins that kept bits of fur together at the end of her coat to keep the cloth snug against her skin. When she finally stands back up, it does feel better. Still stiff, but better.  
  
There’s no reason not to rest, as far as Clarke can tell. If she can somehow relax long enough to fall asleep. But the bed, ridiculously huge and topped with a mountain of furs, doesn’t feel all that inviting. Maybe it’s because she’s been sleeping in caves for the past four months, or maybe she really is just being stubborn. Either way, she grabs a few of the furs from the bed and wanders over to a large chair near the fireplace.  
  
It’s big enough that she can curl her entire body into the cushion of the chair, her head craning just slightly to rest on the arm. She hardly notices though - it’s the softest bed she’s had in months. Since maybe even before she left.  
  
Plans to stay vigilant and sleep lightly vanish within minutes as Clarke falls into a deep sleep.

A soft patter of feet and then the rattle of something metal jerks Clarke awake. She doesn’t move - she knows better than to move. A bear could kill you faster than you could stand if it thinks you’re a threat. Her heartbeat increases by what feels like three hundred percent as she scans the room, instantly assessing any threats nearby.  
  
But she’s not in a cave. She’s not huddled in a thin bedroll stuffed with handfuls of furs, curled in the farthest corner against rock. She’s not freezing. In fact she’s warm - almost too warm. And she’s...  
  
Clarke grunts in annoyance, more at herself than anything. She’s in Polis. In the ridiculously lavish room that Lexa put her in. And someone is in the washroom. She pushes herself up, hoping to see the intruder before they see her.  
  
The furs that Clarke had wrapped herself in before falling asleep begin to slip as she sits up and she quickly snatches them back up. Why had it seemed like a good idea to sleep _naked?_ Had she lost all her sense last night?

"Oh! _Wanheda_."  
  
It's Elena that steps out of the bathroom, the sweet scent of flowers coming with her. She's different than she was when Clarke last saw her; her dark hair is put up, pulled back away from her face, and the blue dress she wore has been replaced with a soft green tunic and dark three-quarter length pants. Her shins and calves are bare, until they disappear into leather shoes.  
  
"You're awake," she says, and bows quickly. "I'm sorry - I didn't mean to disturb you."

“It’s...fine. I’m easily startled.” Clarke peers back into the bathroom. “What were you doing, exactly?”

"Preparing a bath," she answers, and steps aside to motion to the clawfoot tub. "The Commander has requested an audience with you, when you are able. I thought you may like an opportunity to clean up beforehand."  
  
A second scent reaches her nose then, over the smell of the perfume. Something much heartier, and warmer... There's a platter of food sitting beside her on the low table: eggs, bacon, a thick hunk of bread, all still warm and waiting.

Clarke thinks about protesting. About sending the food back in a huff, about walking into Lexa’s throne room smelling of the exact opposite of whatever that wonderful flowery smell is... Her eyes move to the pile of what look from here like rags, but are definitely her clothes.  
  
She practically pulled apart a whole half of her coat last night to wrap her leg. Actually, the word “coat” is generous - it’s really just one giant layer of lashed together, only partially cleaned furs. There’s no way it would stay together for even the walk down to the throne room.  
  
The desire to resist Lexa’s attempts at kindness slips away, and is nearly gone by the time she breathes again. Damn, that smells good. One meal won’t kill her. And she hasn’t felt clean in...well, longer than she’d like to admit. Much longer.  
  
“Elena, thank you. You’re right, I would love any opportunity to get in that tub.” Elena smiles, which makes Clarke smile, which instantly makes her want to scowl. “But next time, please knock.”  
  
 _Next time_. Damnit, Clarke curses at herself internally. There will _be_ no next time!

"Of course, _Wanheda_ \- my apologies." Elena bows again. "I have also taken the liberty of acquiring new clothes for you. They're waiting by the tub."  
  
Perhaps fearing outstaying her welcome more than she already had, the woman moves immediately for the door, leaving Clarke to her own devices.

“Of course they are.”  
  
Clarke rolls her eyes, mostly at herself, and rolls out of the chair. She stretches her leg tentatively - she shouldn’t have slept with it bent like that, but she’s so used to making herself as small as possible... It feels no worse than usual, at least.  
  
There’s something about eating food while naked that seems absurd to Clarke, so she wanders back into the bathroom. Into a smell that couldn’t possibly exist in this post-nuclear Earth. It smells far too fresh, far too... _alive_ , Clarke thinks, to be real. But it’s there, and it’s all Clarke can do not to rip the bandages off her knee before getting in the tub.  
  
She would never admit it, but she spends at least an hour in that tub. She almost falls asleep once, but wakes herself with a splutter when her nose slips beneath the water. Where her knee used to consistently throb with a dull pain, she can now barely feel it at all. It may be the nicest hour she’s spent alone since coming to Earth, and she only reluctantly steps out of the tub when the water is near freezing.  
  
The shirt Elena brought is exactly the shade of blue the dark haired woman was wearing last night. And of course it fits her perfectly. The breeches are a deep brown and fit just as well. There are boots too, but they look small and strangely short. Clarke looks over at her boots, thrown off beside the bed, and pulls them on. They may be worn - too worn, really - but they’ve molded to her body and hug her feet and calves perfectly. She’ll wear them into the ground before giving them up. Finally her belt, the knife that saved her life more than once in the wilderness strapped inconspicuously to the section that hugs her lower back, and she's more presentable than she's been in months.  
  
The smell of food can’t be ignored any longer, her stomach won’t allow it. She imagines anyone outside the door of the room could hear it rumbling. She does her best to eat it slowly, but fails for the most part. She inhales the eggs and bacon and forces herself to stand up and walk to the window with the bread, chewing deliberately slowly.  
  
Polis. In the daylight it looks even grander than it had the night before. And she seems somehow even more high off the ground than she thought. There’s absolutely no way out of this tower, not without sneaking all the way down - or with Lexa’s permission. The thought makes the bite of bread she was chewing on stick in her throat. It may be a glamorous prison, but it’s a prison nonetheless. She’d forgotten somehow, for a few hours, but she won’t forget again.

She stands at the window for some time, gradually whittling away the bread as she observes the city below. And it is a _city_. Roads sprawl outwards from the tower itself, stretching on and on until they meet the walls that had been erected on its outer edge. People and animals and carts of all sizes teem in them, the bustle of so many bodies rivaled in her memory only by the army amassed against the Mountain. Camp Jaha was maybe a quarter of this size, Ton DC even smaller. The foot of the tower itself had its own secondary wall, setting off a sizable chunk of land before the streets began. And beyond...Houses? A marketplace? Maybe even a park? It's difficult to tell, from this high up.  
  
Her musing is brought to an abrupt end by a knock on the door. A messenger - a young boy with sandy hair, dressed entirely in black - waits on the other side; he's here to bring her to Lexa, he says. With one last wistful look at the room and the solitude it had offered her, she follows him out.  
  
They do not retrace the path she followed last night, returning to the throne room as she had expected. Instead, they stop on what she estimates is the floor above it, and exit onto a landing guarded by two more of the figures in heavy armor. They pass the guards and follow an otherwise deserted hallway to a set of double doors. Like the ones on her floor, these doors are carved: a tongue of fire, massive, dancing, and all-consuming twists through the dark stained wood. Without a word, the boy in black opens the door and steps aside. Clarke steels herself with a breath and enters.  
  
But there is no Lexa inside. Instead, she enters a chamber not all that different from the one she'd just left - except in degree. This fireplace is twice the size, a fire already roaring away to warm the room's high ceiling. Its mantel is adorned by a bear's head; the floor below it wears the rest of the animal's skin. Where her room had two chairs, this one has a couch besides. A desk is tucked into a corner, against curtained dividers that she guesses hide another ridiculous bed from view, bathed in the warm sunlight that cascades in from the massive plate glass windows. And then there are the books.  
  
There are dozens of them, piled every which way in every which place. On the desk, on the table, on the mantle, on the floor, some bound in leather, others merely tied, and yet more looking as though they were as old as the building itself...  
  
The boy hadn't closed the door behind her, and moments after her arrival she hears voices coming from down the hall. She knows immediately whose footfalls accompany it.  
  
Lexa sweeps into the room, Elena on her heels. The Commander is not wearing her cape or her coat. Instead, she wears an outfit that is not unlike what she wore when they encountered _Pauna_ and nearly died: durable pants, but a softer top, long-sleeved and layered, and all in varying shades of grey. Her hair lacks its usual netting of braids as well, two simple plaits pinned back to pull the rest away from her face. She looks as though she has recently seen some exertion - sweat beads her brow.  
  
She doesn't acknowledge Clarke as she enters, though Elena offers a small smile when she sees her. The two women are speaking in comfortable tones, though their words are quick. Clarke picks up a few, getting the sense that there are plans for someone's arrival in the works before Lexa pauses to splash water from a basin on her face.

Clarke frowns. She doesn’t know what she expected, but this definitely isn’t it. And whether from that uncertainty or Lexa’s presence itself, she bristles.  
  
“If you’re busy, I can go. It’s not as if I have anything better to do than come and go as you please.”

Lexa's face is buried in a towel, but the sag of her shoulder blades beneath the thin fabric of her shirt is expressive enough. "Thank you, Elena," she says as she lowers the rag and uses it to dry her hands and forearms. "That will be all for now."  
  
" _Sha, Heda_ ," the other woman says, and inclines her head. She tips her head to Clarke as well with a " _Wanheda_ ," and leaves, closing the door behind her.  
  
"Good morning, Clarke," Lexa says finally, hanging the towel on the hook of the basin. She turns to look at her then, making eye contact for the first time since entering the room. "You look rested. Have you found your accommodations suitable?"

“Suitable is one word for it.” Clarke absolutely will _not_ say thank you. “An ill suited one, at that.”  
  
There are a number of similarities between this room and the one she just spent the night in. Her eyes linger in particular on the books. Clarke can’t remember the last time she held a book - her fingers itch to pick them up.  
  
Clarke scans Lexa’s clothes, her posture. She looks more at ease here. Or as at ease as she ever does.  
  
“I take it this is your room?”

Lexa nods. There's a clay pitcher and a set of matching cups beside the basin, and she picks up the former and one of the latter. "We will not be overheard here - one of the few places in the city that I can be certain of that." When the cup is full, she offers it to Clarke. "And it offers a few more comforts than the throne room." That she suspects this will be a long conversation does not need to be said aloud.

Clarke glares at the cup for a moment, but takes it. She’s careful not to touch Lexa in the process.  
  
“Tell me why I’m here, Lexa.”

The answer doesn't come immediately, as Lexa fills a second cup for herself. It's only as she sets the pitcher down again that she begins to speak.  
  
"The Coalition has always been tenuous. You know this." She moves around the table, nearly entering Clarke's space on her way to take a seat in one of the two high backed chairs that stand opposite the couch. A sigh escapes her as she sits. "Gustus thought it would be the death of me. And if it shatters, it may yet be - the death of me, and untold others.  
  
" _Azgeda_ \- the Ice Nation - has always been the most...resistant." Lexa's green eyes lift to Clarke now, lingering on the blue of her shirt before meeting the blue of her eyes. "I prefer diplomacy, whenever possible. But with _Azgeda_ , diplomacy could only come after they were forced to sit at the table. Ever since, they have chafed at the restraints of the alliance, looking for any way they can to break the Coalition or usurp the Commander's power. When the legend of _Wanheda_ began to spread, I knew it was only a matter of time before they took it into their heads to make you into their pawn."

Clarke puts the cup down and crosses her arms. “So you tracked me down to, what? Protect me? You’ll forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”  
  
But she doesn’t find it hard to believe. Not really. Lexa _would_ do just that, would just act, if she perceived a threat - without a thought to the past or what being here, with her, would do to Clarke.  
  
“I’m not a pawn,” Clarke says, holding up a hand before Lexa can interrupt her. “For you or this Ice Nation or anyone else. I would’ve thought you’d at least give me that much credit.”

"I did not think you were," Lexa says simply. "And I do not think you are now. But you would not have to be a willing hand to be of use to them. And the Ice Nation is not known for treating their hostages well."  
  
The Commander drinks from her cup, and for a moment Lexa looks like she's a thousand miles away. When she returns to the moment, it's to level a serious, but earnest look at Clarke. "I meant what I said yesterday, Clarke. You are not a prisoner here. I have no intention of keeping you here against your will, but I could not let you face this threat without knowing of its existence. You can leave whenever you wish. I ask only that you stay long enough to recover your strength."

“I feel better already,” Clarke says without thinking. She adjusts her weight to her injured leg, as if to prove the point to herself. “Even if they did find me. How exactly would they use me? _Wanheda_ isn’t real,” she adds. As if saying it aloud will make it true.

The look Lexa gave her left no question as to how patently false that is.  
  
"The Mountain Men, who had enslaved my people for generations with impunity, who withstood all the might and fury of my ancestors without bending, are dead," she says baldly. "The Mountain, which has stood since the fires that destroyed the world, fell in a single night. And it fell to a single hand." Lexa puts her cup down on the table and stands. " _Wanheda_ is real, Clarke. Whether you acknowledge it or not."

“You made it real,” Clarke snaps. “You made me this. When you betrayed me and my people.” Her jaw tightens. She can feel it, all that anger that kept her warm for months flooding her veins again. In the wilderness, it felt like power to wield anger that way. Here, fear begins to seep in around the edges.  
  
She takes a deep breath but the feeling doesn’t go away. “Tell me what I need to know, Lexa. About this Ice Nation. If that’s truly why I’m here, then say what you’ve brought me here to say.”

There's silence again. Lexa looks at her, conflict in her eyes and clearly words on her tongue. She hasn't looked like the Commander since she walked in the room, but now she looks very much like what she is beneath that armor: young.  
  
Ultimately, whatever she was tempted to say is swallowed. Indecision turns to cool control, and whatever vulnerability was there disappears behind her usual composure. "If they capture you, they will seek to turn you to their cause. I did not exaggerate when I called you a legend; the influence of the one who brought down the mountain, in the hands of the Ice Queen, will be enough to rally their allies to their banner. They will seek to divide the Coalition, and will do it with you as an ally or as a prisoner.  
  
"A delegation, including the Ice Queen, will be arriving here from _Azgeda_ in a week's time. If you wait until they arrive, the woods will be free of their hunters; my people can then get you out of the city undetected. By the time they will realize you've gone, you will have several days' head start."

“So you captured me before they could. And you want me to stay here, with you, until you can ensure I’m no use to this Ice Queen, so your precious Coalition stays intact.” Clarke’s hands tighten into fists. She’s glad she put the ceramic cup down - it would almost surely be broken at the foot of the far wall by now, if it had still been in her hand. “I don’t know what else I was expecting. What exactly do you intend to do with me for a week? Keep me here? As a _dignitary?_ ” She grimaces at the word. The Commander of Death is no dignitary.

"As a guest," Lexa emphasizes, her voice betraying controlled patience. "As I have said. If you would rather leave I will not stop you, but I can only protect you if yo--"

Clarke moves before she knows what she’s doing. The knife at the back of her belt is in her hand in an instant, and it’s at Lexa’s throat in the next.  
  
“Protect me?” she forces the words out between her teeth. “Is that what you think this is? You bring me here, against my will. You use me to protect your _Coalition_. Like that means anything to me anymore. What makes you think my life wouldn’t be immeasurably easier if you and your Coalition were gone?”

Impossibly, Lexa doesn't flinch. Almost as though she knew that this would happen, had always known that this would happen. She remains entirely still as Clarke's arm locks around her torso. She is pinned, her hips to Clarke's and her throat against her knife. Lexa's eyes never waver from Clarke's. Yet, this close, it is impossible not to notice the faster pace of her breathing.  
  
"Will you kill me, Clarke?"  
  
There is no fear in her voice. Her words are matter of fact, as though this could be the easiest thing in the world. And it would be easy... The guards are down the hall, but Lexa, with her arms pinned at her sides, shows no signs of struggle. A simple movement of her hand could rid her of the subject of her nightmares, and she could walk out of the room and out of the tower before anyone even knew to check if their precious _Heda_ was still breathing.

Clarke grits her teeth and tightens her grip on the knife. It presses a little further into Lexa’s neck, but she barely notices. Will she kill Lexa? Could she?  
  
A part of her really - nearly desperately - wants her to do just that. Just get it over with. No matter where her thoughts had wandered these past four months, they inevitably returned to Lexa. They always had. And it hurt. It hurt so, so much. A plague on her psyche that she can only force thin bandages onto, hoping to stem the hemorrhage of constant pain. With Lexa gone, it would have to stop. Wouldn’t it?  
  
Lexa pushes her neck forward ever so slightly, slicing a few more thin layers of skin on Clarke’s knife. Like she wants her to do it. Clarke shudders at the thought, but she doesn’t move. She’s never felt so sturdy, so solidly molded into one position as she does now.  
  
“You think I won’t? I’m _Wanheda_. Commander of Death. I can do whatever I want. Isn’t that what that means? No one is safe from me. Not even you.”

"You do what you must to save your people." She can feel her voice, feel it as it vibrates out of her throat and down the length of her blade. Lexa's gaze is steady. "Kill your enemies, so that your friends may live." There is a question that remains unasked. _Am_ _I your enemy?_

“You understand nothing,” Clarke hisses. “My people are safe, no thanks to you. And safer still now that I’m gone.” Her hand shakes slightly. The resolve she’d felt moments ago slips away, but her body won’t move. If anything, she clutches Lexa closer, crushing the other woman’s hips against her own.  
  
Clarke chokes a little on her own laughter. Tears begin to fall down her face, but she doesn’t notice. “It would be that easy for you. Black and white. Friends, enemies. What does any of it matter now.”  
  
She begins to shake. Her whole body shakes. Not violently, but convulsively. Her entire body feels tense and, even more disturbingly, absolutely out of her control. It’s like her muscles move of their own accord as her hand grips the knife ever tighter, her knuckles turning whiter and whiter against the wood of the handle, and her arm forces Lexa ever closer. She can feel the other woman’s thighs press forward, her hips grind increasingly harder against her own, their chests melding closer and closer.  
  
Clarke clenches her jaw and bites her lip, so hard that she tastes blood. _No_ , she thinks. Her thoughts are laced with hatred, and not just for Lexa. _I’m not what they think. I won’t be what she made me. I won’t!_  
  
She can’t move her fingers - they feel glued to the knife in her hand. But she slowly, painfully slowly, is able to pull her arm back.  
  
Which makes what she does next even more of a surprise than it might otherwise have been. Violently - more violently than she intends - she pushes Lexa away from her and takes several steps back. She still can’t drop the knife. It shakes aggressively at her side, still clenched in her fist.

Whatever Lexa had expected of this moment, it quickly becomes clear that this is not it. The shove catches her off guard. She stumbles backwards, catches herself on the chair behind her even as it threatens to trip her. Her neck is bleeding, but she doesn't seem to notice. Her carefully crafted expression of steady certainty is gone, but it is not fear that replaces it - fear of Clarke, of what she yet might do to her. It's worry, plain and earnest on her face. Worry for Clarke - for what she yet might do to _herself_.  
  
"Clarke," she says - always the same way, the same intonation, the same damn _click_ on the K - and steps cautiously towards her. When Clarke doesn't react, she steps again. The distance between them isn't a great one, and then she's in front of her, reaching slowly forward to lay a hand over the one wrapped around the hilt. Softly, she says, "You can let it go," and it doesn't sound like she's talking about the knife.

Lexa’s touch jars Clarke from her thoughts and she jumps. The knife in her hand arcs up of its own accord, slashing a hair’s breadth from Lexa’s wrist.  
  
“No.” Clarke takes deep, intentional breaths. The shaking doesn’t go away, but it calms enough for her to gain control of her muscles again. “No, I can’t let it go.”

Lexa's hand jerks back, and she watches as Clarke deliberately puts the knife back in its sheath. "Why not?" Her voice is quiet, but the question is a demand. "Carrying this with you will not bring those people back."

“You make everything seem so simple,” Clarke whispers. “Friends and enemies. _Those people._ Like they weren’t real, if they weren’t ours. You don’t understand. I can’t let it go. It...”  
  
Clarke sighs and shakes her head. It feels clear again - for the first time in what feels like hours. Her blood feels calm under her skin. The anger is gone, for now. “I’m leaving. In a week, if that’s how long it has to be. But a week is all. Then you’ll let me go.” She looks into Lexa’s eyes. For all her strength, those eyes have always looked soft to Clarke. More thoughtful than Lexa might like to admit. “Promise me.” She doesn’t ask, but they both hear it as a question.

There is...sadness - pain, even - in those eyes now. Even if there is no surprise.  
  
Slowly, Lexa nods. "You have my word."

“Thank you.”  
  
Clarke’s shoulders sag with relief. She steps tentatively closer to Lexa, their faces just six or so inches apart. She gestures vaguely at the chairs behind the other woman. “Can we, um.” From here, Clarke can smell...well, Lexa. All leather and sweat, mixed with something musky and dark… something like soil and damp trees, but at the same time not like that at all. Something Clarke could never describe but would recognize in an instant.  
  
She clears her throat. “Can we sit?”

For the first time since she entered the room, the Commander doesn't seem to know what to do with herself. Her eyes flash briefly downward, but Clarke can’t let herself conceive of where they might have looked.  
  
"We can," she says, and steps aside, "If you would like."

Clarke slips around her and settles in a chair. Sitting feels good. Solid.  
  
“Tell me about the Ice Nation. I want to know what I’m dealing with.” _And what you’re dealing with,_ Clarke thinks. “Who is this Ice Queen? And what exactly do you expect to happen when she gets to Polis, and I’m already here?”

"Their territory is three days' ride to the northwest," Lexa begins, and she sounds grateful to have something familiar to turn to. Politics and war; these are things she knows how to do. Nevertheless, she crosses to pick up the pitcher and returns to - pointlessly, as she had hardly touched her drink and Clarke hardly so much as held hers - fill the cups. "Their far border marks the northern extreme of the Coalition's territory. As you might guess from their name, they are also the coldest lands we know of - though their lands are not the only thing that's frozen.  
  
"The Ice Queen was the last of the clans' leaders to join the alliance. As I said, it was more submission than volunteer." Lexa sits again, and picks up her cup. She swirls the water inside as she stares into the middle distance. "She has never forgiven me for that defeat. Now, she has used _Skaikru's_ arrival to form dissent. Her ambassadors were the first to advocate your eradication when you first arrived. But now..."

“But now?” Clarke demands. She suspects this has to do with her - with _Wanheda_ \- yet again.

Lexa's eyes shift to her. "I honestly don't know." She takes a drink from her cup. "They continue to claim that the Sky People are a threat, and that I threaten us all by attempting an alliance. They prey on the fear that many already have in their hearts, by painting your people as the enemy.  
  
"And yet, there is talk of Ice Nation traders - without the mark of the white hand, dressed as _Trikru_ , attempting to make forays into Arkadia. So it seems the Queen rebukes you with one hand, but beckons you closer with the other. Either way, you would be of use to her."

Even if Clarke had no interest in going back to Arkadia - and she isn’t sure how true that is yet - she doesn’t like the idea of her people being used. By Lexa or this Ice Queen.

“Traders or no, I don’t like the sound of that. You say she comes here. Why? Do you think, even now that you’ve removed me as a threat,” Clarke can’t help the anger rising, ever so slightly, in her voice, “they’ll try to hurt you?”  
  
Clarke frowns at herself. “Hurt your Coalition, I mean.”

If Lexa notices the slip, she doesn't acknowledge it. "They have never stopped trying to before. But no, I expect this visit will be peaceful, at least on its face. They come to celebrate the First Fall."

“The First Fall.” Clarke sips from her cup for the first time. It’s water, but it tastes... minty? But not unpleasant. “What is that?”

Lexa is in the midst of doing the same, but pauses to look at Clarke like she'd grown an extra head. "Oh," she says, clearly struck by a thought. "Of course. The First Fall is the first snowfall. It marks the last time that the clans will have access to each other until winter passes, and so we gather for a celebration beforehand. We had our first frost two nights ago, and so anticipate the first snow any day now."  
  
For a moment, she considers Clarke over the rim of her cup. "This is your first winter, isn't it?"

Clarke can’t help her mouth from falling slightly open at the thought. She quickly schools her face back to a neutral expression, but the feeling remains. Real snow. She’d seen it on the mountaintop where she was found, of course, but she was so exhausted and delirious from hunger she’d hardly registered what it was.  
  
“It is, yes. All of our first winter, in fact.” Clarke leans forward without thinking, unsure whether the prospect of snow falling from the sky seems more incredible or terrifying. “I’ve never seen a snowfall.”

Lexa's lips crook upward in a small smile. "That is soon to change. You would do well to get proper clothing before you set out again.  
  
"The celebration is what I am counting on as a distraction, to cover your departure," she continues, returning to a question Clarke had asked earlier. "Delegations from each clan will be arriving around that time. With so many coming into and out of the city, the absence of one individual will be difficult to notice."

“That makes sense.” Clarke looks into her cup and swirls the liquid around. Snow. It sounds... well, cold. And wet. And like it will absolutely impede her journey.  
  
Clarke looks up to see Lexa smiling in that way that she does. That way that makes her heart somehow still skip a beat, despite everything. “Snow. Right. Well in the meantime, what exactly do you expect to do with me? Keep me locked in a tower?” She thinks about the building she’s in, the rooms she’s seen. It all really does seem like a fairytale, in some ways. An absolutely fucked up fairytale.

That smile tips slightly into a smirk. "While that would do much to set my mind at ease, I do not believe for one moment that it will work." Lexa drinks, and when she lowers her cup, the smirk has disappeared. "You are free to explore the city, as you wish. I would prefer that you do so with a guide, both so that you will not get lost and so that you have an extra set of eyes. If you would allow it, I would assign an attendant to you. Elena can show you more of the tower as well, so that you can know what you have access to."

“I’d like to see the city.” Clarke thinks of the throngs of people she saw out her window - an unbelievable amount of people and animals. Almost as many as were on the Ark, it seemed. “I’ve never seen so many people in one place. Ever.”  
  
She looks around the room again, her eyes lingering on the books strewn on the table. “Elena seems nice. She didn’t...well. She seemed nice.” Clarke fiddles with her cup awkwardly then rolls her eyes at herself. “I don’t like being...escorted. I’d rather explore by myself.”

One of the Commander's eyebrows quirk in response to the half-finished sentence. "I am hardly surprised. Though I don't believe it wise - as you have pointed out, Polis is a large place, and there are many people in it - I do not anticipate I will be able to stop you. I am certain any guard I mandate to watch you will find themselves charge-less within the hour." She sits forward a bit, sets her cup down on the table. "Is something wrong?"

“So many things,” Clarke mutters. “But nothing more than usual.” She looks up at Lexa’s expectant face and groans. “I don’t need a guard. But...”  
  
Clarke leans forward, traces her fingers over the cover of the book closest to her on the table. Yet another tree, not unlike the one on the door to her room, except this one is devoid of leaves. “I haven’t been around other people for a long time. It felt long, in any case. I can’t...I don’t want to talk about what happened at the Mountain. But what if what happened here, happens again?” She looks up again. Those deep green eyes, boring into her. So obviously trying to understand. “Maybe it’s better if I stay. Until I can be on my own again.”

All at once there is solemn comprehension, and Lexa nods. Her eyes flash to the book and back. "Do you read, Clarke?"

“Yes, of course!” Clarke clears her throat. “Ah, I mean. Yes, we were all taught to read.”

"I had gathered that much." That smile is back in the corner of Lexa's mouth, and she stands. "Though, I suppose that answers my question anyway. What do you like to read?"

“Fiction.” Clarke instantly wants to stand and meet Lexa at her level. Even just having the other woman above her while she sits, less able to move and defend herself, has her limbs screaming at her to stand up. Her grip tightens on the arms of the chairs and she closes her eyes briefly. This is ridiculous. Caution is one thing, a lack of control is another.  
  
“I always preferred fiction. But not the fanciful kind, not fairytales. Stories about real people.” She glances up at Lexa. “People from a different time and place than our own.”

As she's speaking, Lexa is sorting through a small pile of books on the low table in front of them. When Clarke rejects the idea of anything too fanciful however, she makes a slight face. "Not this one, then," she says, and puts down the book in her hand. Though it's bound in relatively new leather, _Pride and Prejudice_ is clearly etched across the spine.  
  
She spends a few minutes moving around the room, looking through the various stacks scattered around. "I do not have much of what you ask for here," she admits, even as she pauses to consider a book on her desk. "These are mostly...history and legend..." After a moment, she picks it up and returns to Clarke.  
  
"Until I saw _Skaikru's_ weapons for myself, I could only imagine that this story involved magic." She sits, and offers the book - positively ancient, its cover worn and stained, but somehow, miraculously, intact. _For Whom the Bell Tolls_ , it reads. "As it turns out, this story may not be all that fantastical after all."

“Ernest Hemingway,” Clarke makes out, despite the stained cover. She gently opens the book and examines the first page. “We had a book by him, something like about the sun, maybe? Avery was very protective of it, even though we were supposed to keep every book in her classroom anyway. She claimed her father had it with him in the war, and that it was her right to keep it for herself. But she’d let some of us read it. Under supervision, of course.”  
  
Clarke blushes as she realizes she’s been babbling. “Have you read this one? Or do you prefer a Mr. Darcy in your books?” She gestures at the book in front of her on the table.

"What?" Lexa's eyes flash to the book Clarke gestures to and, though she doesn't blush, it's clear enough that she hadn't expected that question. "I - no, not generally." Her eyes narrow, and she sits back in her chair a bit as she studies Clarke. "You've read it?"

“Yes, several times. It’s one of the few books we had more than one copy of.” Clarke inclines her head, studying Lexa. “I assume you’ve read it as well?”

"It was recently recovered," she says - and Clarke gets the sense that she's rationalizing. "And took some time to restore. To my knowledge, this is the only version of it that still survives - aside from yours, of course."

Clarke can’t help the smile tugging at her lips. “Did you enjoy it?”

Lexa makes a face. "It is a little too absurd to me," she sniffs.

“You think so?” Clarke chuckles. “What seems so absurd about it?”

"The whole notion of it!" Lexa waves a dismissive hand in its direction. "The whole story could have been prevented if the characters simply spoke to each other, instead of hiding behind their so-called prejudices and....prides."

“I don’t know how unrealistic that notion is,” Clarke raises an eyebrow at the Commander. “And I suppose it wouldn’t be much of a story without a little drama.”

"Realistic drama," Lexa mutters, even after bringing her cup to her lips. She takes a sip, then says, "Would you prefer to take that one?"

Clarke’s smile turns into a full on smirk. “I don’t know that I’ve ever found those characters more relatable than in this moment. But I have read it many times. I could probably even recite some of it at this point. I haven’t read anything new in...” Her smile fades a little. “Well, a long time. I’d love to read this one. Do you mind if I borrow it?”

Lexa shakes her head, waving the book away. "No, no, please," she says. And then suddenly becomes much more cautious. "I can trust you to treat it well?"

Clarke chuckles. “Yes, of course. Books were just as scarce on the Ark as I assume they must be here. We all were taught to treat them as precious.”

Even so, Lexa looks only somewhat reassured. She makes no move to take the book back, though.  
  
"Just...keep it inside the tower, perhaps."  
  
Before Clarke can respond, there is a knock on the door. Lexa's head snaps up, but she doesn't move to stand. "I apologize, but I fear my time this morning has come to an end." Her eyes return to Clarke. "Remember what I have told you about _Azgeda_. You are safe in this city, and may make use of it as you see fit. I ask only that you stay vigilant; just because the Ice Queen cannot reach you here does not mean there is no trouble to be found."

Given what Lexa has said about this Ice Queen, Clarke very much doubts she ‘can’t reach her,’ even in Polis. But she just nods and stands. “I’ll leave you to your duties, Commander.”

Lexa stands then as well, and with a nod, seems to turn to those very duties. But as Clarke reaches the door, her voice stops her.  
  
"Clarke..." She turns to find the Commander looking at her earnestly. Lexa hesitates, uncertain of how, exactly, to express what she wants to convey. "If you need anything..."

“You’ll come running?”  
  
Clarke means it to come out as a joke, but it sounds harsher than she intended. “I know you’re busy,” she quickly continues. “I’ll ask Elena. Isn’t that what you said?”

"...it is. Yes." Lexa blinks, and that look is gone. Already, _Heda_ is reasserting herself, enveloping Lexa in her steel-clad walls. She stands a little straighter, her chin lifting. "Be well, Clarke."

Right. Of course.  
  
Clarke nods in response, the room feeling somehow colder than it did moments ago. Without another word, she turns her back on Lexa as she begins to move around the room, and opens the door.  
  
Beyond is, perhaps unsurprisingly, Elena. Another girl, a few years younger, stands behind her; where Elena offers a smile, she looks surprised to find her still in Lexa's room.  
  
" _Wanheda_ ," Elena says, inclining her head in a way that is quickly becoming familiar. "I hope you have been..."  
  
Clarke realizes that Lexa can be seen over her shoulder now, and Elena's voice falters as her eyes land on her. All at once, she remembers the cut, thin but fresh, on the side of Lexa's neck.  
  
"...Enjoying your morning." Elena recovers her composure, and her attention returns to Clarke. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

“No, thank you, Elena.” Clarke does her best to put on a smile, but even to her it feels forced. “I was just going back up to my room to read. I remember the way.”

"Of course," Elena inclines her head again. The other woman moves past Clarke and, in a quiet voice, greets Lexa. "If that changes, let me know."  
  
She enters the room then as well, and it is clear that her time here is over. The three women, principally Lexa and Elena, begin a conversation in Trigedasleng and in moments, it's as though she isn't even there.


	2. Black as Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: food prep (specifically, hunted game)

Clarke doesn’t look back as she walks up the long, spiraling staircase to her room. As concerned as she is about this new lack of control over her own actions, the desire to be _anywhere else_ is too strong to ignore. Surely in a city this big, she can be outside _and_ keep her distance from others.  
  
She pushes the door open and walks straight to her coat on the ground, but frowns when she remembers the state that it’s in. She paws through the pile of clothes Elena had left and grabs the only jacket available. It’s thin, but sturdy - and lined with some kind of fur that she’s almost annoyed to think feels incredible.  
  
There are two deep pockets on either side of the jacket and she carefully tucks _For Whom The Bell Tolls_ in one. In the other she places some charcoal that she’d managed to save, wrapped carefully in cloth. There was no reason to keep it with her these past months, but it had felt too terrible a thought to throw it away. And finally, some parchment from the table in the center of the room. It's not much, but enough to suit her needs.  
  
Clarke glances outside and frowns at the frost accumulating on the windows. The jacket she has is warm, but lacks a hood...she rummages around her old clothes and pulls out a scarf. Or at least a longer piece of fabric that she’d repurposed as a scarf for two months. Dark grey and nondescript, it should get the job done.  
  
She checks her pockets one last time and, before she loses her nerve, strides with as much confidence as she can muster out the door. She has no idea how to get out of this tower, but Lexa said she could come and go as she pleases. And the way out could only be down.

The visors of the guards that she walks past obscure their eyes, but she feels them on her nonetheless. Her hands twitch, the hair on her neck stands up, automatically ready to fight if they try to stop her...but they don't. They maintain their motionless vigil, and she passes on.  
  
The staircase she has used thus far during her time in the tower descends several flights past the throne room's floor, but comes to a decidedly unintentional end still several flights above the ground; on that final landing, a permanent barricade is built against the yawning chasm that exists where the rest of the original staircase presumably stood. So she enters another hallway, where the smell of food and bustling bodies, dressed less lavishly than those she'd seen last night, move from room to room. None of them take any heed of her, the occasional glance spared but no more. Everyone seems too busy to care about one strange face.

Clarke does her best to weave in and out of the steady flow of people, but it’s difficult to do. The smells become increasingly strong, and more and more tantalizing. She shakes off the desire to investigate them and pushes on. There's another staircase - and another, and another, all with the same effect. All of them are bombed out, none of them reach the ground, and she begins to feel increasingly trapped.  
  
She heads back upwards and attempts different floors. It's somewhere around the throne room that she remembers: a lift. There's only flashes, in between the memories of frustration, rage, and pain, but it's there. She retraces her steps and ends up following a group of well-dressed people through a door, and onto a large wooden platform. Finally, success; the platform lurches as someone throws a lever, and down they go.  
  
There must have been another dozen levels between there and the ground, and it takes several minutes for them to reach it. When they do, she filters out into a cavernous foyer, and then... Just beyond a set of three double doors, thrown open and flanked by guards, is unimpeded sunlight.

 _Finally_. Clarke rushes out and breathes deeply. Finally, fresh air. It feels like weeks since she’s been outside.  
  
The elation at being outdoors is quickly quelled by the sheer number of people. People with clothes of every shape and color, people with horses and donkeys and carts filled with food and wares - all bustling back and forth along the street in front of her. And that’s just this street.  
  
She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. The sun feels hot on her face, despite the chill, and she can feel a breeze blow through the fabric of her shirt. She refuses to sequester herself. That’s ridiculous. She should be able to simply be around people. The old Clarke used to be able to compartmentalize, such that she could feel more or less alone even in a crowd. This isn’t her. She can be better than whatever this feeling is.  
  
When she opens her eyes again, the people and animals are all still there, but she feels better. It’s no different than being in a forest with birds trilling all around, or surrounded by bare trees and burrowing rodents in the mountains. It’s all part of the landscape, and she’s just a small fraction of that reality. Clarke looks around and takes stock of her position. North is...right. Slightly right. She walks that way, with the intention of walking as far to the border of Polis as possible. Then working her way slowly back in, one handmade, charcoal-drawn grid at a time.

It looks like much of the city is arrayed in avenues, long thoroughfares radiating out from the tower and clear out of sight. What is before her is not what she could see from the windows above, as best she can tell; the room she stayed in must be on another side of the tower. She makes a quick note of that, and starts off down one of the larger streets.  
  
What might have originally looked like the spokes of a wheel turns out to be more like a spider's web. Every so often - and with an irregularity that makes them feel like an afterthought - cross streets break off from the main drag, forming blocks and alleys in the ever widening distance between the main roads. And, at every step along them, activity buzzes all around her. Trigedasleng reaches her ears from all corners, drivers yell at passersby that block the path of their horses, and everywhere the energy of humanity presses in on her. Again, no one here takes notice of her, a strange change from nearly all of the last year.

She has become increasingly proficient at map making since arriving on Earth, which served her particularly well the last four months. There may have been no need for geographical maps on the Ark, but engineering and industrial maps worked in much the same way. All have patterns, all have focus points. Markers of particular importance or interest that push the boundaries of the structure around it, shaping the architecture of a thing or a place in a way that would never exist without it. Earth and terrain works no differently, and Clarke makes short work of mapping out the corner of the city that she initially chooses to investigate.  
  
It’s still a small area - this place is even bigger than she anticipated, and despite all her efforts to the contrary, it’s been nearly impossible to pass by unnoticed. No one recognizes her, as far as she can tell, but artisans holler at her to investigate their wares, shop keeps yell from their storefronts and carts for anyone who passes by to taste their food. The stimulation is grating, and after several hours it becomes too much. The careful walls she created in her mind to keep human stimulus out begin to crumble and rust, and after she trips into a merchant and stops herself seconds from pulling him to the ground in a stranglehold, she decides to give up mapping for the day. She has a quarter of the city down, at least, and even that won’t be worth anything if she gets herself thrown in prison for attacking someone unprovoked. Or whatever other, horrible punishment the Grounders have for something like that.  
  
She finds herself at the bank of a narrow river. It’s a tenuous border, as far as she can tell, and she’s been following it more or less all day. Anyone could sail - or maybe even ride a horse, if it were shallow enough - over it in ten minutes. Less, even. But today at least it looks calm. The wind bites, but doesn’t blow too often, and the sun shining down on the city is interrupted only by an occasional passing cloud.  
  
There are more people here, in Polis, than Clarke has ever seen, and they are _nothing_ like she expected. When Lexa promised, in another lifetime, that Polis would change Clarke's perception of her people, Clarke had been a little preoccupied; no image, no expectation, settled in her mind in the face of the Mountain. In the months that passed since she'd hardly spared Polis a thought, let alone come up with some mental picture of the place, but she finds herself stunned by it nonetheless. And yet, it's precisely how she imagined cities in stories: old, sometimes decrepit, sometimes new buildings, but always streets teeming with life. It feels more like civilization than she’d ever imagined Grounders could have. And way more of a civilization than her people have had since coming here.  
  
But Clarke knows her limits, or at least finds that she knows them this time. So she sits down to read the book Lexa gave her by the river for an hour or so. That’s all she has until the sky begins to turn dark and the cold sets in, much harsher than before without the daylight to ward against it. Clarke shivers and pulls her scarf around her face as she gathers her things. At least her efforts today will help her get back to the tower, that’s something. And soon she’ll know her way around this city better than anyone, with a map to guide her.  
  
As she turns to head back, Clarke sees a band of people heading into the city from the north. They’re indeed crossing the river - and to her earlier assumption, on horse. And she must have been more lost in Lexa’s book than she thought, because they are much closer than she would like.

She pulls the rest of her scarf over her blonde hair and recedes into the shadow of a squat building nearby. The structures here are far more sparse than they are at the city center and there is no one else in the street, but luckily for her these Grounders don't seem to be looking for her.  
  
As the last set of hooves finish their thunderous, splashing journey across the river, the group slows their pace to a trot. Unluckily for her, the first of them pulls their horse to a stop just in front of her hiding spot, and drops out of the saddle.  
  
" _Natblidas_ _!"_ She orders, " _Shiddo_ _!"_  
  
Dark, thick hair is pulled back in rows of braids across her head, and she's dressed head to toe in black leathers. But as the other riders dismount - nine of them, Clarke counts - she sees that the all black armor the leader wears is a uniform. Every one of her companions is dressed in an identical set and not a single one, Clarke notices with a start, is an adult. The girl who stopped in front of her looks to be the oldest, perhaps fifteen at most. The youngest, maybe half that age, wears a diminutive set of the same armor, and looks harder than any child should. The effect of it is eerie.  
  
The group chats together as they tend to their saddles, which are laden with freshly caught game. The interaction, despite their warlike appearance, is easy and fun; they're a group of kids, teasing each other as they work. One of them gets a cloth thrown in their face, to uproarious laughter, and Clarke recognizes the sandy haired boy who had escorted her to Lexa's room earlier that day. He uses the cloth to wipe what appears to be a smear of black war paint from his cheek - but cleaning it exposes a gash. A moment later the black is back, seeping slowly from the cut.

Clarke’s mind tries and fails to make sense of what she’s seeing. Black blood? Blood is red for a reason - the interaction between iron and oxygen in blood cells causes a red pigment. And without that interaction, blood cells wouldn’t work the way they’re supposed to. She may not be a certified doctor, but she’s watched her mother work intently all her life - she at least knows that much.  
  
But she’s seen odder things during her time on Earth. Much odder things. She can try to make sense of this once she gets back to the safety of her room. They may be children, but Clarke knows enough not to underestimate them. She peers closer at their armor. It looks familiar.  
  
It looks like Lexa’s.  
  
Something about the combination of these two developments puts her even more on edge, despite the playful demeanor of the group in front of her. She steps back tentatively - ever so slowly - praying she doesn’t step on a loose stone or slip. Her time hunting in the forest has paid off, it seems, as she sinks into a crouch without a sound. Nevertheless, the movement itself draws the attention of the sandy haired boy, who looks up in her direction...but, seeing only darkness, he returns to his work.  
  
Once the group has finished, smaller game slung over their shoulders, larger game carried between them or on their horses, they take the leads of their mounts and continue further into the city. In minutes, stillness returns to the refuge Clarke discovered, and the sun slips below the horizon.

Clarke stays in her position, scanning the far bank and her surroundings. It’s several minutes before she gets up again, and she only does so after a particularly biting gust of wind off the river reminds her that she’s not in the wilderness; there’s no risk of a bear or other, far more terrifying creature lying in wait.  
  
Or at least, less of a chance.  
  
She glances at the map she made. The tower is just a fifteen minute walk from here, it seems, and even if she didn’t have a map she’d be able to find it. It’s the largest structure in the city by several times.  
  
The walk back is quieter than the city had been the rest of the day, which does not put Clarke at ease. The sun is quickly setting and all of the shop keeps and people wandering the streets seem to have disappeared. She slips back to the side of the tower with the lift and climbs on just as it begins to move up. As it rises she mentally maps all the floors and staircases she’d experienced today. She’s reasonably confident she could find her way back to most of the places she’d been, if even by a circuitous route.

Apparently there is only one stop on the lift, as she finds herself once again on the main floor. It bustles as it did the night before, finely dressed bodies moving through the space. As the lift comes to a stop and she steps off, a large group of bickering people pass by with Lexa in the center. She is dressed once more in her coat and pauldron, her blood red cape sweeping the floor and helm of awe shining on her forehead. There's a moment - her eyes lift and catch Clarke's, they hold each other's gaze - and then she's gone, swept away by the group.

Clarke’s stomach leaps into her throat. She’d just seen Lexa that morning, but even that one glance sets her off kilter. Flashes of anger and bitterness surge through her, and not a small amount of...Clarke gulps, forcing that feeling back down.  
  
She’s been standing there for only a few moments and yet suddenly feels so completely out of place. Lexa had made her feel comfortable here - more comfortable than she had thought possible - for a day, but it doesn’t change the fact that she doesn’t belong here. It doesn’t change anything that happened, and it doesn’t change what Lexa did. What _Clarke_ did.  
  
Suddenly the whole hallway feels suffocating, with the endless streams of colorfully dressed people running here and there. She takes a step back, half intending to leave right then and there. But Lexa had said the first snow would come soon, and it's already so cold. She’d never make it in just this jacket, warm though it is. She sighs, and fingers the book in her pocket.  
  
Just then a waft of something - smoked, maybe? - hits her. Something that smells so incredibly similar to bacon that it makes her mouth water instantly. Clarke’s stomach growls and she thinks how long it’s been since she ate. Not since she inhaled the breakfast Elena had brought that morning. She’s used to surviving on nuts and berries at this point, but those eggs must have kickstarted her appetite more than she realized.  
  
She shrugs, as if to say to herself 'why not grab a meal before running as far away from here as possible,' and wanders toward the source of the smell.

It brings her down several flights - by her estimation, there are about ten levels of the tower currently in use, with the throne room set right in the middle of them - and back to the abrupt bottom of the staircase. Here again are the people moving with purpose, in clothes less extravagant than the ones above, but now many of them are laden with plates and trays and piles of food. Just as before, none of them notice her except, perhaps, to give her an annoyed look for blocking the stairwell as they hurry past.

She’s clearly in the way, but Clarke can’t quite bring herself to go back up to her room. And therefore have to use that buzzer to ask someone for food...no, she’s definitely not going back up there. Not now that she’s already here, and that smell surrounds her in an ever-thicker fog with every step.  
  
The kitchen that she steps into is larger and more grand than any kitchen she has ever seen. Which isn’t saying much, given that she’d maybe seen the inside of a kitchen on the Ark one or two times and those were as spartan as they could possibly be. But even so, the difference is obvious. Two huge, long tables fill the middle of a giant room with dozens of people prepping, cutting, plucking and skinning birds and small game of various sizes. There are stations all around the room for marinating, cleaning, stewing, cooking...it’s almost, yet again, too much stimulation, but Clarke’s stomach won’t let her back down.  
  
A very short and slim woman in a leather apron looks up at her. She has a half feathered bird in her hands and she pauses her work to look Clarke up and down quizzically.

“ _Yu_ ," she demands, her eyes narrowing. She's an older woman, grey peppering the dark hair at her temples and appearing throughout her ponytail. " _Kos yu enna ai grub? Hm?_ "

“ _Ai laik kerr Polis_...” Clarke hesitates. She doesn’t really know enough Trigedasleng to convey what she means. “ _Ai ussna...losta_ ...mmm. _Enes. To losta. And, er. Yu ford sen_...” Clarke throws her hands up. No word she knows in Trigedasleng comes close. “Amazing?”

The stern look on the woman's face becomes more and more chiseled...until her food is mentioned. Then she perks a knowing eyebrow, and lets out a bark of laughter.  
  
"New, yes - no one here speaks Trigedasleng like you do." She puts down the bird, and wipes her hands on a rag. "Elena told me about you, though I did not expect to see you in my kitchen. You are hungry, yes?"

Clarke could not hold back an emphatic nod if she tried. “More so than I had thought possible. I think I may have followed...whatever that smell is, for at least four floors.”

"Ah, you should - it will be the last fresh game for some time, I think."  
  
She bustles away, flagging Clarke to follow her with a hand. They round one of the massive tables, pass what could only be the rewards of the hunt she had just seen come to the city being skinned and prepared, and stop in front of a massive fireplace. Several fires burn beneath the long mantel, and the one the woman has chosen has a large pot boiling over it.  
  
"Give me one," she tells Clarke, indicating a pile of wooden bowls on top of the mantel. In the meantime, she takes a ladle off a hook and stoops to the pot.

Clarke would happily give her whatever she asks for at this point to discover the source of that smell, but even if that were not the case, the other woman’s voice holds little room for argument. It’s a command, not a request, and one that Clarke is all too happy to follow.  
  
At any other time the enormous fire might feel too hot, but after being outside all day Clarke feels glad for its warmth. “Thank you, for your kindness.” The shorter woman pours something thick and absurdly hot into the bowl in her hands. “I’m Clarke. What’s your name?”

"Tera," the woman answers, and hands the bowl off to Clarke without looking at her. "It takes a god's eye to plan a meal for this army, but most visitors are oblivious to such skill. You keep complimenting my food," by now she's hung the ladle back up and, with some effort, straightened from her stoop to face her, "You can come to my kitchen any time you like, Clarke."

Clarke smiles. “Where I’m from, there was never food even half as good as this smells. I can assure you it’s not flattery. Or at least, not entirely.” That seems to make Tera smile a little, too.  
  
The stew is really too hot to eat, but Clarke doesn’t care. She gulps half of it down at once, realizing only after she swallows that she could have - and perhaps should have - asked for a spoon.  
  
“I think I saw the...children? That brought this game back.” Clarke licks her lips. Too hot, but absolutely worth it. “They didn’t look like anyone else I’ve seen here. Their armor looked similar to...” she trails off, but the meaning is clear.

"To _Heda's_ _?"_ Tera clicks her tongue, and starts back to the table where Clarke found her. Along the way, as though reading Clarke's mind, she picks up a spoon. "You _are_ new here. Take this, before you burn yourself. You are not _Pauna,_ you can use a spoon.  
  
"Who you saw were the _Natblidas,_ Nightbloods. They are in training to become the next Commander, when the need arises." There is a finality in Tera's voice as she picks up the chicken again. Not if, when.

Clarke barely registers taking the spoon. _The next Commander_. There would only be need of one if she...Clarke frowns, thinking of that morning. There are a great many threats to the Commander. She supposes it isn’t so odd that there would be others in training, ready to take her place. But something else about the memory of those riders comes to her...  
  
“Why are they called Nightbloods?”

"Why, because of their blood!" Tera answers, and picks up the bird again. Before she begins work on de-feathering it again, she jabs the beak in Clarke's direction. "Tell me - what color do people bleed where you're from?"

“Red...” Clarke stares at the chicken’s head, feeling slightly out of body at the combination of images and questions before her. “Everyone’s blood is red.”

Tera shakes her head, and begins plucking the chicken again. "Not the Nightbloods. Theirs is black as the midnight sky on a moonless night."

Clarke stops herself from refuting that possibility outright. She had seen it for herself, little more than an hour ago. But how? It doesn’t make any sense. It’s one thing for the creatures that haunt Earth’s forests and mountains to adapt and evolve - they look and behave differently than they had before the radiation. But those kids earlier hadn’t looked any different than any other human. Their blood clearly serves the same function as hers or anyone else’s, so how...  
  
Those kids weren’t the only ones, either. Clarke’s heart begins to thud at the memory of that morning. Of holding Lexa in a vice against her, a knife at her throat - and a thin trickle of blood down her neck.  
  
Black as midnight. The fact that she’d somehow missed that detail is almost as disturbing as how Lexa's neck was injured in the first place.  
  
“If that’s how new Commanders are chosen...does it mean anything?” Tera raises an eyebrow. “I mean, what does it mean?” Clarke tries to express her questions without, inevitably, sticking her foot in her mouth. “They didn’t seem any different than you or I, except for apparently having black blood.”

"They are no different. Make yourself useful - hand me that," she says, and makes a grabby hand motion at a cleaver sitting beside Clarke's hand. "They're the same as you or me, except they've been chosen. Every Commander since the first has been a _Natblida._ It marks them for great things."

Clarke hands over the cleaver, handle first, absently. Her mind is pushing her down a road she has no interest in going down, but she can’t stop herself. “But they’re all children. How often is there a need for a new Commander?”

Tera's expression goes grim as she takes the cleaver with one hand, and sets the chicken down on the table with the other. Her eyes flick to Clarke's but, unable to hold her gaze, they return to the bird. "No Commander has ever died in her bed," she says, and brings the cleaver down on the chicken's neck.  
  
Soon after, Clarke is shooed from the kitchen with a refilled bowl and a hunk of bread. Though there was nothing like a state dinner happening tonight, _Heda's_ guests still needed to be fed and their dinner needed to be plated; so, with assurances that she could return on the morrow with more questions if she had them, Tera sends her on her way.

Clarke thanks Tera again and makes her way back up the winding stairs and halls of the tower, more sure of her way this time. She doesn’t have an exact destination in mind - darkness blackens the sky, but it's still early in the evening.  
  
_Black as midnight_.  
  
Absentminded, she still manages to dunk the hunk of bread Tera had given her in the stew, chewing it with a forced slowness. She still hasn't shaken the habit of inhaling her food.  
  
Her tolerance for interacting with crowds of people has nearly vanished at this point, but she doesn't feel tired just yet. And sitting in that room - her room, apparently - doesn't sound very appealing either. Lexa had told her the truth, she can clearly come and go as she pleases. So far, at any rate. But that room still feels...empty, is perhaps the feeling. Even when she's in it. It feels like any other place she's slept in the last four months, Clarke realizes, in at least one essential way: it feels temporary.  
  
When she finally shakes herself from her thoughts, she is surprised to find herself in a part of the tower she's never seen. The hall is dimly lit, with fewer sconces than other halls she's walked down. The effect is a dim, eerie feeling, punctuated by a lack of people. There are still some moving about - it seems there is nowhere in this tower that isn't constantly populated by at least one moving body - but there are less of them and they move with a purpose through the hallways and corridors. As if the rooms in this...wing? Of the tower aren't ones you'd want to linger in.

The doors here are fewer, too, and are not carved in the way others are. One stands open, and as Clarke approaches it - alone now, as the few people she had seen have left - that sense of foreboding intensifies. The hair rises at the back of her neck, and she steps softly.  
  
But the room is unoccupied when she enters. It is a large room, perhaps as wide as the throne room is long, but much less brightly lit. Candelabras, tall, spartan, made of wrought iron without embellishment, hold dozens of plain wax candles that cast the room in a dim, reddish-orange hue. That color is reflected in the walls which, rather than the cold imported stone of the throne room, are built out of solid wood, painted with figures and scenes that she doesn't recognize. Except for one. In the center of the far wall, directly across from the door, the wood is painted with the same massive, dancing flame that is carved into the door of Lexa's room. All reds and golds, it is as foreboding as it is beautiful. It hangs above the only other furnishing in the room: a podium of stained black wood that bears a book at least three times the size of the one in her pocket.

It's abundantly clear that Clarke does not belong here. The air in the room feels heavy. Sacred, somehow. And not just because of the uncanny resemblance it has to almost every forbidden room in literature.  
  
Her feet move her in front of the huge book before she can convince herself to stop. It's not too enormous; the sort of book you could easily pick up and carry, but would have trouble reading without setting it down on a surface. It's bound in wood and leather and looks somehow both old and new. Like it's never been rebound, only fixed as a page falls out or corner of the wood decays. Clarke traces the symbols carved into the cover, but she has no idea what they mean. Some look like the flame on the wall, or parts of trees and animals, but the leather that's been used to keep the book in tact obscures nearly half of every carving.  
  
Clarke gently, and agonizingly slowly, opens the book, being sure to check for any sign that she's hurting it.  
  
It does resist her, but it seems more because of the sheer size of it than the state of the materials. As she guessed, the first pages are delicate and stained with age. The language here is at once more familiar and less comprehensible, as words that closely resemble their English spelling are mixed in with a form of Trigedasleng that she's never seen. The flame image features heavily here as well, accompanied by the black silhouette of an undefined figure. Further on, the image of Lexa's Helm of Awe - the same spiky, gear-like shape - is sketched out in black ink. Though she can't make out much of the details, Clarke begins to suspect that this is a legend of some kind, the story of someone named _Pramheda_.

 _The First Commander_. That has to be what it means. Clarke scans the pages ever more quickly as she absorbs their contents. This First Commander seems to have been someone who helped the survivors of the bombs, but there isn't much more information about them. Other than their status as _Natblida_. Nightblood. The other entries appear to be for every new Commander and the language becomes more and more similar to the Trigedasleng that Clarke knows. Even what little of it she knows is enough to note that a list of names comes before each new Commander, though none of them have the usual clan name with them. And only one of them ever appears again, this time appended with the title _Heda_.  
  
She doesn't need to flip through the entire book to realize what she's looking for and where she'll find it. She flips to the back, to the most recent entry. Again, a silhouette in black, but this one is familiar. She's younger - much younger than Clarke expected, and the image doesn't provide much in the way of specificity of her features. But it's Lexa, Clarke is sure of it. She could probably pick the Commander out from her shadow alone. There isn't an entry following the image of her, but the pattern in succession is clear: every new silhouette, every new Commander, looks similar to the one who came before, but looked at together the story is obvious.  
  
They get younger and younger. Which means they've been dying faster and faster.

"You shouldn't be here."  
  
The voice makes her jump. Whirling around, she lowers her center of gravity as she automatically prepares for an attack. The source of the disturbance is on the other side of the room, his hands folded behind his back.  
  
The man who stands in the open doorway is the same who stood in Lexa's throne room last night. He isn't exactly old, somewhere around her mom's age, if she had to guess. His head is bereft of any hair but darkened with tattoos, and he is dressed in pale purple robes that border on grey - the same, she realizes, worn by the others she had seen on this floor. His eyes, cold and dark, stare out of pale skin to level a harsh look on her.

"I'm sorry, the door was open and I just walked in. I'm C--"

"I know who you are," he snaps in return, the words just barely short of a snarl. He takes a few steps into the room, his arms dropping to his sides. " _Heda_ may have given you free reign of this city, but this is a step too far. This room is not for you, girl; leave at once, and forget what you've seen."

Clarke's jaw clenches in anger. How dare he talk to her that way - like she's some petulant child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She's _Wanheda,_ Commander of...  
  
She swallows and blinks, surprised at herself. She wants nothing to do with that title, or any special treatment that might come with it. And it doesn't matter who she is, in any case, she _is_ trespassing. She'd allowed herself to get too comfortable. Again.  
  
"I didn't mean to offend anyone. I'm sorry for intruding." Clarke takes a few steps forward, wary of the man. He doesn't seem like a threat, but not everyone that's hurt her has.

He doesn't move as she passes, perhaps as wary of her as she is of him. But he turns once she's out of reach, and she can feel his eyes burning into her until she turns the corner, and is gone.

Clarke's heart hammers in her chest. Not from the interaction, but from what she saw in the book. It's not as if she'd have guessed before today that Grounders enjoyed particularly long lives - warriors least of all. And if Lexa is anything, she's a warrior. But it really hadn't occurred to her that she could die at any moment. That the likelihood of that is so great, that any one of the Nightbloods she'd seen earlier could become _Heda_ tomorrow.  
  
That, and that they would have to kill each other to be granted that title.  
  
Stairs open up before her and Clarke is vaguely aware of walking up, with no real thought to where she's headed. Lexa had to have killed other Nightbloods to become the Commander. She wonders how many. There were nine in the group she saw crossing the river. And they all seemed so lighthearted. They have to know what will happen when Lexa dies, and yet they seemed to be the best of friends. Just a group of ordinary kids. Despite everything Clarke has seen, and everything she's experienced since coming to Earth, that reality seems somehow still incomprehensible. It's no wonder Lexa is the way she is - she was forced to murder all of her friends. As a child.

She's taking the steps fast, her breath coming faster as she runs one at a time, then two at a time, then there's a landing, around the corner and--  
  
Clarke hits something solid. It isn't solid enough to halt her momentum entirely - it goes crashing into the side of the stairwell with her - but it does catch her as her balance tips, keeping her upright. Black armor, a flash of red, and green eyes that go from confounded irritation to surprised worry the second that they meet hers.  
  
It's Lexa. _Of course_ it's Lexa.  
  
"Clarke?" She says, and the hands that are on her arms tighten a little, become more purposeful.  
  
She's not alone. Clarke notices immediately that just off to the side, a group of older Grounders stand looking baffled by her sudden and violent appearance. Among them, for the first time since the Mountain, she sees Indra's face - and watches it darken from surprise to suspicion.

"Lexa." It comes out in a rush. She'd been so caught up in her thoughts, she hadn't realized how out of breath she is. She moves to take a step back, but Lexa still has Clarke's arms in her grasp. Clarke becomes increasingly aware of the rest of their bodies, crushed together against the wall of the stairwell. "I, ah. I'm sorry." She looks up and Lexa's eyes are inches from hers, all concern, undividedly focused on Clarke. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

"I noticed," Lexa answers, and there's a joke in there, somewhere, but it's lost as she surveys Clarke. Her grip does loosen after she realizes the other woman has her balance, but she doesn't release her from her gaze. "Are you alright?"  
  
"Yes, I'm fine." Clarke tears her eyes from Lexa and takes in the rest of the people staring at her. Indra has her eyebrows raised nearly halfway up her forehead.  
  
"I'm sorry for interrupting," she nods at the other Grounders. Now that she's regained her balance, her heart rate begins to slow. Why have there been so many surprises today? It's like this city is trying to give her a heart attack. She turns her attention back to Lexa. "I was just heading back upstairs. I've had enough excitement for one day, I think."

"Very well." Lexa nods, though whether because she actually accepts that answer or for the sake of the others with her isn't clear. " _Reshop,_ Clarke."

Clarke feels a little disappointed, for some reason that she has no interest in investigating, but outwardly she returns Lexa's nod. "Commander."

She walks by the other Grounders with another curt nod and continues down the staircase - slower, this time. Her room isn't hard to find. She does her best to ignore the silent guards at the end of the hallway and closes the door quietly behind her.  
  
Everything looks just as she left it, except for two things. The furs she'd used as blankets last night are back on the bed, and the fireplace crackles with a small fire. Clarke's lips quirk in a smile. She's sure that was Elena's doing and is immediately grateful. 

She had planned to go back over the map she'd made that day. It's easy to make imprecise marks when she's outside, and she always prefers to look back over her first pass to check for any inconsistencies within the map itself and her memory. Sometimes she even copies it down again onto new paper, if she can spare it.  
  
But the fire is too inviting. Instead, she drapes her jacket over one of the chairs in the sitting area and leaves the map in its pocket. She grabs the book from the other and two furs from the bed. She places one on the ground in front of the fire and drapes the other around her shoulders, one of the chairs supporting her back as she reads.  
  
By the time she looks up again, she's about halfway through the book. The fire is burning close to embers, and though the sky was dark when she got to her room, she's confident several hours have gone by. After the activities of the day, her feet are exhausted and her eyes hurt from reading in dim light. Her body feels energized, but her mind is ready to call it quits. She quickly strips out of her clothes and gathers the blankets to curl back up in the chair.  
  
Scenes from the book, still half open on the table in front of her, play out in her mind. She can see how someone could think of a war like Hemingway's as beautiful. The way he describes it, you'd think there was some honor to be found in the suffering of battle. Clarke imagines it would be easy for someone to convince themselves that's true. Perhaps there's even a self preservation aspect to that idea: if it's honorable to suffer and die, then you could convince yourself that it's worth it. That dying for a cause means more than living without one.

But Clarke has seen enough to know that it's never worth it. Maybe if she lives long enough to see the end, she thinks. If this fight - the impossible, endless task of protecting those she loves - is ever over, maybe then she'll have the luxury of considering whether her actions were honorable or not. She doubts that will ever happen, but it’s a nice thought. Lexa, on the other hand... It will never be over for Lexa. The war she fights, whatever form it takes day to day, year after year, will never be over. The day it's over is the day she'll die. Clarke's heart aches at the thought and she falls into an uneasy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes we are making up some Trigedasleng. No we're not linguistics PhD's. We're borrowing the basics we can glean from the 100 Wiki's entries on the language's mechanics and vocab, but the language is obviously incomplete - so we fill in blanks as needed. Some of it's probably gonna sound dumb. Please don't roast us.
> 
> Also, wow is it hard to not be Weird about Clarke's first experience with Polis. Thanks, showrunners.


	3. The Problem That Is Clarke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: PTSD, anxiety attack

Clarke can tell that it's a far more reasonable time when she wakes up the next day. The sky is already light, but not fully. It can't be more than an hour or so past sunrise.  
  
She stretches out and winces. Her knee had felt so much better yesterday, she'd forgotten to tend to it last night. Now it aches from being bent and immobile for so long. But a few steps into the bathroom later and it already feels better. She'll just have to remember to stretch it out more often. She glances over at the giant bed in the middle of the room and shakes her head. Stretching it out will be fine.  
  
Clarke finds herself rushing her morning routine - she's anxious to get back outside, to explore the rest of the city and add to her map. Already she knows so much more than she had before - the eastern river boundary, the fact that the southeastern part of the city appears to contain more houses than any other type of building. She's eager to see what the rest of the city is like.  
  
A pile of clothes at the foot of the bed catches Clarke's eye as she walks back out into the sitting room, preparing to put her clothes from yesterday back on. She hadn't noticed them at all the night before, probably because they blend in so well with the furs. A fresh shirt, dark blue but otherwise nearly identical to the one she wore yesterday, lies on top of a pair of thick pants. They aren't lined but they're criss-crossed with fabric and worn black-but-almost-grey leather, presumably to keep warmth in and cold out. And beneath it all is a long coat, lined with grey and white furs and sporting the hood she'd wished for the day before.  
  
Had she wished for that out loud? She's almost certain that she hadn't. 

_Lexa_.  
  
Clarke rolls her eyes, even as she pulls on the fresh clothes. The pants are snug, but already the insulation they provide makes her feel warmer. The shirt fits, if anything, better than the last one. She frowns at the coat. Wearing it somehow feels like letting Lexa win...something. But it was cold yesterday, and she had wished for a hood. Both to keep the cold out and to avoid any prying eyes. She pulls it on with a huff.  
  
Not about to allow Lexa every satisfaction, she ignores the newer, sturdier boots and stubbornly pulls on her old ones. She puts her partially completed map and cloth-wrapped charcoal in one pocket and her book in a pocket sewn into the inside of the coat and carries it out the door.  
  
Elena would almost certainly bring Clarke breakfast if she asked, but it still seems too odd to use a buzzer to call someone for food. And, if she's being honest with herself, she doesn't feel much like she deserves Elena's unwavering attentiveness. She's perfectly capable of getting her own meal, which is exactly where she heads next: to find Tera.  
  
She knows her way around now and jogs down the last few flights of stairs into the kitchens. Tera is easily recognizable with her salt and pepper hair and leather apron - and even if she weren't, she's currently ordering several people about with swift instructions shouted in Trigedasleng.  
  
"You!" She says, and points at Clarke. "Don't just stand around there. I'm very busy this morning." Tera glances at the coat drawn up around Clarke's throat but doesn't comment. "I fixed you a plate over there, by the fire. Had a feeling you'd be back here again."  
  
Clarke begins to apologize but Tera waves her off. "It's nothing fancy, just some eggs and hash, so don't thank me too much."  
  
Clarke smiles and thanks her anyway. She doesn't take much time eating - clearly something is happening in the tower. Or maybe it's always this busy in the morning? Either way, people are running around as if their lives depended on crafting as much breakfast as physically possible, so when Clarke is done she takes her plate to a large washbasin and cleans it off to the side. A young man takes it from her and stacks it in the pile of clean plates with a small smile. Before she leaves, Clarke thanks Tera again who once again waves her off. "Come down whenever you like. So long as you keep cleaning up after yourself, it's no trouble to me."  
  
Not ten minutes later and she is on her way down the lift, back into the city.

The sun is glorious today. The clouds that had obscured the sky on and off the last few days are nowhere to be seen, and light pours down out of a crisp blue sky to warm her face the moment she steps outside. It is much colder out here than it was beneath the furs and next to the fire, but there's something invigorating about the sting of it on so peerless a day; Clarke pauses a moment in the courtyard outside the tower to drink it in.  
  
It's while she stands there, hands in her pockets, face to the sun, breathing in air that she hears the distinct sounds of combat coming from around the side of the tower. She opens her eyes, immediately alert to the sound...but no one around her, not the guards standing at the tower doors nor two women crossing the green space towards them, seem to notice. Or if they notice, they certainly don't seem to care. Their disinterest is not enough to satisfy her, however, and with a slight frown creasing her brow, she pulls the hood up and follows the sound.  
  
She follows the outer wall that encircles the tower's courtyard for several minutes, the sounds growing louder and more distinct with each step. The shouts she hears above the sound of thumping and whacking aren't cries of pain or distress, but encouragement and instruction. When she comes upon the scene, it's clear why.  
  
A section of the courtyard has been cordoned off, and within that fence is a group of kids, dressed entirely in black, training with bo staves. Some, the smaller ones, face training dummies made out of straw and canvas; the older ones, including the girl and the boy she saw the night before, are arrayed against each other. Indra sits on a fence post watching the activity while another Grounder Clarke does not recognize leans against the fence on the far side. In the midst of them all is Lexa, wearing a similar long sleeved outfit to yesterday's and carrying a staff of her own. Her voice is mixed in with the students', Indra's, and the other Grounder's, correcting forms and approving of efforts where necessary.

This would be the southwestern side of the tower, Clarke reasons. She thinks of the endless lines of buildings and stalls beyond the courtyard - and beyond that, the forest she knows lies to the west. The forest she’d been bodily dragged from, she thinks with disdain.  
  
No one seems to notice her at first and she can’t keep herself from lingering. The boy and girl that she recognizes, though young, appear extremely competent with the staves in their hands. Neither land many hits in on each other, and when one of them manages it the other quickly evens the score.  
  
The smaller ones look almost comically dutiful, their children’s faces hardened into frowns as they move through the steps Lexa barks at them. Even as she recites instructions - and they are clearly recited, many of the kids moving from one motion to another before Lexa finishes speaking - she walks around the older children. Watching their forms, giving suggestions. At one point she taps the back of the boy’s knee with her staff, causing him to stumble and the girl to win a hit to his forearm. The boy swats his staff back at Lexa but she easily sidesteps the blow, clearly chiding him in Trigedasleng. The boy grins, but returns to his exercises.  
  
Clarke chuckles at the scene and it’s then that someone finally notices her. Indra, who is closest to her, perched on the fence about twenty yards away.

" _Heia, Skaikru_ ," she says, in that low alto that had once been a warning to Clarke. She seems relaxed here, elbows on knees, but her sword hangs from her hip. An ever-present warning. "I'm surprised to see you here."

Clarke walks over to her and leans her arms on the fence, still watching. “Indra.” She nods at the other woman. “Why’s that?"

"Octavia did not take well to the Commander's decision." Indra's attention hasn't wavered from the trainees - but for this, she gives Clarke a sidelong look. There's no question about which decision she means. "I did not think that _Wanheda_ would, either."

Clarke grimaces at the title. “I hadn’t planned to ‘take to it’ at all. Lexa brought me here. Had me brought here.” She studies Lexa as the Commander demonstrates a new form with her staff. Clarke doesn’t need to look at Indra to know the other woman is watching her. “I don’t forgive her, but what does that matter? What’s done is done.”

"Hm." Annoyingly, there's a trace of wry amusement in that sound. "All the more reason to be surprised you're here."  
  
Indra shouts something to one of the Nightbloods, causing Lexa to break off in her demonstration for a moment to look up. That little smile of hers is tucked in the corner of her mouth - Indra's input had been entertaining enough to draw chuckles from the Nightbloods - but it drops the second she sees Clarke. Her eyes fall to the ground for a beat, and she quickly resumes her instruction. If Clarke didn't know any better...she’d say she was embarrassed.

Clarke rolls her eyes - whether at Indra or Lexa, she isn't sure. Both seem equally likely.  
  
"Again, it wasn't exactly my decision." Some of the Nightbloods are looking at her curiously, including the boy she recognizes. He gets smacked yet again by Lexa for his inattention.

"And yet you remain here."  
  
The Nightbloods are all broken into pairs now and their heights and ages are not so well matched. Nonetheless, those shorter and younger do not appear at an immediate disadvantage: all here are expected to be fierce warriors, regardless of perceived imbalance, it seems. At one end though, the girl from last night is paired with the youngest, a boy of maybe seven. Their interactions look much more like teaching than trying out a new form by sparring.

"Apparently I've been saved from mortal danger by being dragged here." Clarke likes Indra, despite their differences. Even so, she's careful not to say too much. "I'll be gone soon enough. Besides, this city is...growing on me."

"I thought it might be." Indra levels a look at her from the corner of her eye. "I know you, Sky Girl. You wouldn't be here if you hadn't chosen to be."

Clarke hadn't realized how closely she'd been watching the Commander until she has to tear her eyes away from her. "That sounds almost like a compliment."

“It would be," Indra says with a shrug. A wry note enters her voice once more. "If that stubbornness weren't such a pain in my ass."  
  
Clarke can't help the smirk that tugs at her lips. "Well I'll take it as a compliment. Besides," she nods in Lexa's direction, "you have enough stubbornness to deal with."

Indra scoffs dramatically and loudly, drawing a flash of Lexa's eyes again. "You think you're bad," she says. "You wouldn't even be here, if I had my way. But the Commander rarely listens to me where you're involved."

"Well she rarely listens to me either, so I'm not sure who it is she does listen to." The meaning of Indra's words sinks in. "You think it would be better if I left, or hadn't been brought here." Clarke refuses to gloss over the fact that she did not choose to come herself. "Why? Does my presence put someone in danger?" 

"Her." Indra lifts her eyebrows in Lexa's direction. The Commander stands alongside one of the Nightbloods; crouched low, her staff held in both hands and across her body, she's giving instruction by demonstration. "There is a threat from _Azgeda_ , yes, but there is always a threat from _Azgeda._ Bringing _Klark kom Skaikru_ into her halls wouldn't do much to soothe those who fear she would put the interests of _Skaikru_ before her own people's. If they found out about it, anyway."

The distinction is a small relief - Clarke would prefer as few people know of her presence as possible. For her safety, but also for...she scowls away the thought before her mind can complete it.  
  
"I'm leaving as soon as _Azgeda_ arrives, and I don't plan to make trouble before then. I mostly keep to myself these days. You're right, Lexa - everyone - will be safer when I'm gone." Indra's dark brown eyes consider her, searching her face. Clarke shakes her head and turns back to the training in front of her. "They're all Nightbloods, aren't they?"

For a moment, it doesn't look like Indra will take the bait. But then she sighs through her nose, and she looks at the trainees. "Yes, they are. It's important for the current Commander to get to know them, so her spirit knows who is most worthy. So she trains with them each day, after taking up her own training."

"They're all so young." Clarke chuckles at a younger boy who trips over his own feet, mid-motion, and lands on his butt. "Could any of them be chosen, even one of the youngest?"

There is a brief moment of sadness in her voice when Indra responds, "Whoever is most worthy."

Clarke thinks of the silhouette of Lexa in the book. She couldn't have been much older than most of these kids - certainly no more than fourteen or fifteen - when she became Commander. Suddenly the scene in front of her changes; what looked like lighthearted training now seems far more serious. They may be friends now, but every weakness they perceive in each other could mean the difference between life and death. The older boy and girl face each other with little of the mirth they had previously, grimly attacking each other again and again, looking for any opening without giving away ground. The unsaid reality is clear: this time it's with wooden staves - next time they may be holding a different, far more deadly weapon.  
  
Instead of voicing any of this out loud, Clarke says instead, "Perhaps Lexa will outlive us all." She smiles, but it's half-hearted. "That would be just my luck. Plagued by her stubbornness until I die." The sun beats down on them and Clarke shrugs out of her coat. She drapes it over the fence and leans her arms on it to lessen the feeling of rough wood digging into her arms. "Do you mind if I stay here? For a bit?"

Indra just shrugs. "As long as you don't get in the way."  
  
They watch in companionable silence as the Nightbloods work through several more exercises, Lexa leading them with renewed vigor as she appears to forget the others' presence. She jokes with them even as they work, sweat beading her brow as she moves with them through the steps, correcting where needed.  
  
The sun has moved in the sky by the time the Grounder on the far side calls out, giving a few quick raps of her own weapon against the fence post to draw their attention. This section of training has come to an end, it seems, and the participants' shoulders relax as they shift out of combat mode. The staves are collected and extra layers of clothes are retrieved, some from hay bales right in front of where Clarke and Indra linger. One of them is the sandy haired boy, who looks right up at her.  
  
"Hi," he says, picking up a discarded long sleeved shirt. He pulls it on over the sleeveless shirt he currently wears, covering the surprising multitude of tattoos that twist across his arms. Over his shoulder, Lexa glances in their direction as she sweeps a cloak over her shoulders.  
  
“Hi,” Clarke replies. He can’t be more than twelve, but he was clearly gaining the upper hand by the end of their training. The older girl he’d been sparring glowers in his direction. “I’m Clarke.”

"I'm Ronnie." He glances at Indra, but she's already moved off to talk to one of the others. He picks up a water skin and uncorks it. "You're _Heda's_ guest, right?"

"I suppose I am." _Guest._ That's one word for it. "That was pretty impressive. It looked like you had her by the end."

"Almost," he says, face brightening with a little smile. "I will next time. Do you fight?"

"Not...on purpose." Flashes of memory leap before Clarke's eyes - of piles of bodies, not broken but lifeless all the same. Of fighting for her life with just the knife at her back. Of vengeance and anger - so much anger - and a switch, flipped with no more effort than she would exert to swat away a fly.  
  
She realizes that Ronnie is looking at her intently, head cocked a little to the side. "Only when I have to," Clarke clarifies. She mentally shoves the images as far back into the corners of her mind as possible. "I'm not nearly as good at it as you, though. I think you'd handily beat me."

"I could teach you, if you want," he answers helpfully. He takes a swig of water, and turns to look at the older girl he was fighting. "I'm not as good as Kita, she's strong. But I'm fast."  
  
Lexa has continued watching the better part of this exchange from several feet back, under the guise of gathering her things. But now, whether because she ran out of things to collect or in response to Ronnie's offer, she vaults over the fence and, without a word, heads for the tower.

Clarke narrows her eyes at Lexa's back as she walks away. She brings Clarke here, effectively hunts her down, and now won't even look at her, let alone speak to her? _Seriously?_  
  
She tears her gaze from the other woman and forces her attention back on Ronnie. At least someone is interested in talking to her, and the honest sincerity on his face makes her smile. "You know, I'd like that. I think speed would serve me better than strength, at this point. But I don't want to distract you from your duties."

"Oh! Yeah - maybe not now," he says, and looks back to see the other Nightbloods gathering again. "But maybe tomorrow? If you come early enough, it'll only be _Heda_ here - we can do some work before the other _Natblidas_ show up."  
  
" _Shodi_ ," Indra calls then, approaching Ronnie, "Are you bothering the woman?"  
  
" _Nah, Seda_ ," he answers dutifully, and corks his water skin again. He nods at Clarke, and jogs to rejoin the others.

Clarke chuckles and waves goodbye to him. A few clouds have gathered in the sky, cutting across the sun and causing the wind to stir. She grabs her coat and pulls it around her shoulders. Her fingers graze the parchment in her pocket and she looks out beyond the courtyard, then back up at the sky. Plenty of time to explore another corner of the city.  
  
" _Leida, Indra._ I hope I didn't prove too distracting."

"You only managed to pull one highly trained warrior's attention away from his practice," she says wryly, "So I suppose you were the least distracting that you could have been."  
  
After that, there's little more for her to do than to choose a direction and set off.  
  
Where yesterday she elected to make a straight shot to the outreaches of the city, today she weaves between the avenues and their haphazard cross streets. With her hood pulled up it proves easier to keep the press of humanity at bay; in its recesses, the fabric is added to the walls she builds around herself. That means that when she happens on an open square, stretching between thoroughfares for yards and lined with stalls of every kind, she has enough strength to investigate.  
  
This must be one of the spaces she saw from the window the previous morning, and it is indeed a massive market. Where before she passed shops lining the street, here she is surrounded by them. The smell of food is everywhere: here sweet, there savory. The burn of firewood is in the air as well, wafting from food stalls and what looks to be a blacksmith's shop, where the ting of hammer against metal rises above the sound of the haggling crowd. There are clothing vendors too, some showing off hardy leather goods, while others hang cloaks and shirts of fine linen from their eaves. And dotted among them, it seems, is every craft imaginable: wood carving, carpentry, pottery, weaving, dying and sewing. If ever there was a question of Grounder art and culture, here it is on full display.

Lexa was right: Polis is changing the way that Clarke thinks of Grounders.  
  
She has far less time to sketch out her map, walking between streets and through the throng of vendors and artisans, but her memory should be enough to fill in the blanks later. As she walks among the stalls, it occurs to her that not only that everyone here seems to be trading goods or currency - of which she has neither - but most of the people here likely don't speak English. Even so, it's oddly peaceful to be among so much energy and motion that has absolutely nothing to do with her. No one even gives her a second glance, let alone recognizes her.  
  
A stall at the far end of the row to her left catches her eye. She wanders closer, weaving through the throngs of people, and the clang of metal on metal gets ever louder. The blacksmith's shop emerges to her right, encompassing the space of at least three of the other stalls put together. A large, tall cylinder formed of stones shaped snuggly together holds a forge fire in the middle of the space. Scrap metal and half-finished blades litter the ground and long tables on either end of the shop, and a truly enormous anvil rests in the center in front of the fire. The blacksmith is currently at the fire, holding a piece of steel in the flames and examining it, but her giant hammer rests on the anvil. Clarke wonders how exactly anyone could've possibly moved that thing from wherever they found it - it would take at least a dozen people to carry. _At least_.  
  
But for all its clanging, the blacksmith's shop is not what caught her eye. The stall next to it is far quieter but no less intriguing. All manner of items hang from the wooden supports and the makeshift walls. Knick knacks litter the counter and baubles gleam from the darker corners. She would have no idea what most of these items were if she were a Grounder. In fact she has no idea what some of them are even as herself - they're all items people used to use, before the bombs destroyed the world and her people left in the Ark. She spots several compasses and more than one pistol, all rusted and likely totally unusable. Even a rifle sits at the back of the stall, its barrel slightly hooked to the side. There are ancient, ambiguous looking electronics, picture frames with nearly unrecognizable people smiling from them - even what she thinks may be a kite, with rainbow-colored wings and a long, feathered string attached to one end.

" _Heia, shodi_ ," a voice greets. She turns to find an old man, wrapped in furs against the cold, tucked into the opposite corner of the shop. His face is warm, hidden in a sparse, grey beard, but not a single hair remains on his wrinkled head. " _Beja, snoop ma stuf. Wha yu feen?_ "

" _Heia_." Clarke thinks for a moment, then strings together, " _Ai snoop arun, mochof_." The man nods and watches her as she touches and picks up various items. He doesn't seem to be worried that she'll take anything - just curious what she'll find interesting.  
  
There are plenty of things she'd like to examine further, but what catches her eye after gently moving aside a needlepoint that once read something beginning with "The Home Is Where..." is an unassuming tin box. She opens it gently, unsure what she'll find. Inside are carefully wrapped items that at first glance seem to have no business being together in one box. Two long and coiled, straw-like tubes. A pair of socks. A tight but large ball of some kind of bunched up thin plastic. Another plastic tube, this one much smaller and filled with clear liquid. And finally, two thick, rectangular pieces of plastic and two needles with flimsy metal caps welded to one end.  
  
She stares at it for a moment, her mind racing to put the pieces together. It's a first aid kit. A haphazard, thrown together first aid kit, but even so. Someone with medical knowledge but a lack of access to medical supplies must have made it, and likely during the war. The tin box might have served as some protection but still it's impressive everything inside managed to survive.  
  
She has no money, and the only things of value on her to trade are her knife and Lexa's book - neither of which she is willing to part with. But she makes a note of it, replaces the needlepoint on top of the box, and thanks the man again.

The longer she lingers, the more the repeated clanging from the blacksmith's shop forces its way into her consciousness. Steady, never ending, the sound of it grows and grows, filling her head until she--  
  
She thanks the old man quickly, and exits the shop. Thankfully this corner of the market is less occupied, meaning there are fewer people to dodge around as she pushes her way out and away from that sound before she jumps out of her skin. Her hands shaking, she ducks her head beneath her hood, stuffs them into her pockets, and shuts the world out until her heart can steady itself.  
  
There is less noise a few blocks away, and Clarke is grateful for it. She passes a building that has a ramshackle awning spread out over wooden tables where Grounders drink from steaming mugs and play some kind of game with wooden chips. Further on, a man sits outside a shop, sewing closed a hole in a shirt. She has just about recovered her wits when a child's shout rings out from further on, and people in the street part to reveal a dog - an honest to god _dog_ \- on a breakaway. It bounds down the street in her direction, carrying something in its mouth and pursued by the shouting child.

She barely has time to form the image of “dog” in her mind before it skids to a stop in front of her. It’s big - bigger than she expected. Muscular too, with a squarish head and short, floppy ears. It might be a little intimidating, if not for the aggressive waggle of its tail and the playful _grrruph!_ it makes at her around the item in its mouth.  
  
The item in question is a ball of some kind. It should be far too big for the dog’s mouth, and yet somehow it’s managed to keep it between its jaws. Clarke frowns uncertainly at it, which gains her another insistent _grrrrruuuph!_

" _Idjit! Idjit poper, chit yu dula??_ " The running child comes to a halt as well, and the dog - which was sitting - stands up again to face him. He goes to snatch the ball, but yanks his hand back when the animal raises its hackles and snarls, leaning backwards on its hind legs.

Clarke braces herself for some kind of panic attack - she’s seen more than one wolf in the past few months, and more than one saw her. But somehow this, out of everything, pushes past her anxiety and she can only feel fascinated. A dog. She’s read about them in stories, and of course every kid on the Ark wanted one, but everyone knew it was a fantasy. None of them would ever see a dog, not outside of pictures.  
  
The dog is still looking up at her and she realizes that she’s staring. Clarke bends down to a squat, balancing on her toes, so that her eyes are level with the dog’s. It gestures its snout at her and kind of prances on its front paws. Her hand twitches, anxious to pet it, but she stops herself from reaching out. Her experience with animals on Earth has been exclusively violent, and even if this is a domesticated dog, who knows what a “normal” dog is like here.

If it were possible for a dog to look confused, this dog does. Its whip of a tail wiggles, and it sets the ball on the ground before bowing on its front paws. Before she can do anything however, the kid's hand shoots forward and he grabs the ball.  
  
" _Idjit popper!"_ He yells, and takes off as the dog stands up again and starts barking. Apparently understanding that this kid does not want to play, it eventually sits back on its rear legs, whining quietly and looking balefully after the boy and his ball.

Clarke takes a deep breath and steals herself. She is absolutely not letting this opportunity pass her by. The dog looks up at her as she reaches out her hand slowly.

It pulls back a little, putting its nose in range to sniff her hand. Still seated, it wiggles around so it can sniff her wrist, then her jacket sleeve. Apparently satisfied, it makes a huff sound and licks her wrist.

Clarke's face breaks out in a grin. She pets its head, lingering on its ears - they're so soft - and scratches under its chin. It wriggles and yips, which makes Clarke jump, but it lets her pet it a little more before trotting back the way she had come. In search of another ball to steal, Clarke muses.

Feeling somewhat better for the experience - and somewhat sad to see it go - Clarke continues on. She passes the target of the dog's robbery, a game being played by a group of kids that used the walls of an alley as a backboard. Just as she is getting tired, a moment of respite offers itself: a green space, dotted by trees and other plants, appears between the buildings. It isn't walled off or otherwise marked, just an abrupt end of developed space for several blocks.

Almost like a park, Clarke thinks. It probably _is_ a park. Or was, before the bombs.  
  
She finds a tree that's trunk faces the sun, a few leaves still hanging determinedly to its branches. The roots aren't huge and she easily finds a nook to sit down and settle in. She removes the charcoal and parchment from her pocket and extends her leg to stretch her knee. The whole position is surprisingly cozy as she sketches in the parts of the city she's discovered so far.  
  
It doesn't take her long and as she's folding the parchment back up, Clarke's stomach rumbles. Thankfully, she had the foresight to grab something from the kitchen before leaving - a bun of some kind that she tucked into the opposite pocket to her map. She has no idea what it is, but it smells sugary and when she bites into it she identifies the sweetness as honey. The bread is thick, clearly meant to fill you up rather than provide a snack, which suits Clarke fine. She takes small bites and chews slowly, savoring it and attempting to ensure that it will provide enough energy to get her through the rest of the day. Besides, how much energy does she need to read? She pulls the book out of her pocket and flips to the page where she'd left off.

The sun is lower in the sky when she's distracted from her book once again by the sound of hooves. She isn't far from the road and hadn't paid any mind to the horses that had passed previously - but those were one, maybe two at a time. This is the sound of a small host.  
  
She gets up, curious to see what such a ruckus might be. Standing at the edge of the park, she watches as a group of Grounders, maybe two dozen strong, part the pedestrians at a trot. They wear clothing that Clarke has never seen before and carry a standard in blue and white before them: three spirals, each connected in the middle by an axis, and streaming tails behind them.

Clarke's curiosity - and the increasing cold - get the better of her. She tucks the book safely back in the breast pocket of her coat and starts off in the direction the riders took. They're clearly headed toward the tower so Clarke doesn't hurry, but she examines the people she walks by more closely, curious to see what their reaction to these newcomers might be.

Perhaps surprisingly, no one seems particularly bothered by their appearance. In fact, a number of them seem excited to see the riders, waving and calling words of welcome. A woman in the middle, dressed in blue linens criss crossed around her body beneath her cloak, waves and calls back, a smile on her face. There is little fanfare, but it is clear that this group is known to the people of Polis.  
  
Though they are on horses, the size of their party slows their pace; they arrive at the tower maybe minutes before Clarke does. When they do, Lexa stands at the entrance, Indra at one side, the bald man in purple robes on the other, and guards flanking on both. These guards look like the ones she encountered inside but instead of carrying weapons, they carry standards: one with the cog of the Commander's helm emblazoned in black on a red background; the other, two overlapping circles with a dot in the center of that shared space, emblazoned in red on black.  
  
Clarke is not the only one to have followed the newcomers back. A small crowd has gathered, collecting behind the horses to see what happens. She finds herself relatively close to the front but hurries off to one side to both get a better view and to avoid the mass of people collecting behind the rows of horses. Even if she hadn't spent so long on her own, that many people in one place would make her nervous. Being in the middle of a crowd has never served her particularly well.

" _Monin, Floukru_ ," Lexa calls, when it seems that the group has somewhat calmed. The chatter of the crowd fades, and she continues. "Welcome. _Kongeda_ is honored that you have joined us for this year's First Fall."  
  
"The honor is ours, _Heda_ ," responds the woman in the center. Her hair is dark and falls in tumbles of thick curls down her back. Her horse is stopped beside the standard bearer and she dismounts as she finishes speaking. Crossing to Lexa, she offers a hand; Lexa clasps her own around the woman's wrist, and a real smile parts her otherwise solemn lips. "The Boat People would never miss an occasion to see our splendid host."  
  
The crowd, though many would likely not understand the English words, erupts in cheers.

Clarke looks more closely at the woman standing next to Lexa and the people on horseback in front of them. Their clothing isn't as heavy and dark as the Grounders she's encountered before; they wear long, flowing coats and loose fitting pants. Most of them have linen shirts wrapped in the same style as the woman who greeted Lexa. Clarke imagines they must be freezing, but none of them so much as shiver in their saddles.

Perhaps most surprising of all: Lexa greets this woman like a sister.  
  
The initial formalities finished, the rest of the group dismounts and begins to collect their things. Lexa and the other woman, chatting amiably, disappear into the tower. With nothing much else to see, the crowd begins to disperse with some still lingering to talk to the new arrivals.

Clarke shivers again - she hadn't noticed how close the sun is to setting. The concept of days growing shorter and shorter is something she was unfamiliar with before coming to Earth and has yet to adjust to. She makes her way back toward the lift, thinking she may as well put her map and Lexa's book away in her room. That will also give her a bit to think of what she'd like to do this evening.  
  
Clearly Lexa is occupied and even if she weren't, she would almost certainly avoid Clarke. Pangs of anger ripple through Clarke's chest. Lexa brought her here - _kidnapped_ her - and now will barely deign to look at her. How nice that must be for her, Clarke thinks, to just avoid the Problem That Is Clarke until it disappears.  
  
By the time Clarke reaches her room, she's worked herself up to practically fuming. She throws the coat down on the bed and Lexa's book falls out of the pocket, landing on its spine. Clarke glares at it. She has a fleeting thought of throwing it in the fire - let the dramatization and over-blown glory of war burn to hell. Along with the fact that Lexa would be royally pissed, which would at least be _some_ emotion from the other woman. But the urge passes, even more quickly than it came, and she gently recovers the book and smooths the pages. No matter what kind of book it is, it's precious now in this world where art and knowledge are increasingly scarce.

She decides in the end that food is a priority, and heads down to the kitchen to chat with Tera for a while. Despite their new guests, it seems the tower staff are no more harried than usual; Tera betrays that they've been preparing for this for days, and that it will only get worse as more people arrive. Luckily, they don't need to feed all who come - many join the official delegations to assist in the journey to Polis, and therefore stay in the city rather than the tower. Even so, there will be far more mouths to feed than usual in the coming weeks.  
  
Tera makes her earn her dinner and conversation by kneading bread dough, a chore that she has to be taught how to do. Once that is done, she is allowed to take a tray of food back to her room. There she sits with the charcoal and her map, going over her discoveries of the day and attempting a brief sketch of the dog she met earlier.  
  
It's easier to ignore the bed this evening, her righteous anger from earlier reminding her that this is little more than Lexa's gilded cage for her. She falls asleep in her chair in front of the fire, and wakes again with the sun.

When she arrives outside it's much colder than it was the day before; the sun is newer, and hasn't had time to warm the earth beneath her. Her breath clouds in front of her as she surveys the tower courtyard before making her way around to the training field.  
  
Shouting and sounds of exertion reach her ears before she sees it, and as she rounds the corner, she spots Ronnie standing where Indra sat on the fence the day before, watching two figures in the pitch face off against each other with training blades. It's Lexa and Indra, and neither seem to be giving the other any quarter.

“Hey, Ronnie,” Clarke says, several yards before she reaches him. He’d been watching the sparring women intently and she didn’t want to startle him. But he turns casually and waves, as if he’d already heard her coming.

"Morning, Clarke," he says, an easy smile coming to his face. Behind him, Indra swears in Trigedasleng as the sound of steel on steel rings out. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

“I wasn’t sure either,” Clarke admits. She glances up to see Indra pushing Lexa back with some aggressive hits. “But you seem like you’d be a pretty great teacher, from what I saw yesterday. And besides, I could use a few more tricks up my sleeve.”  
  
Clarke drapes her coat over the fence and smiles at Ronnie, doing her best to ignore the clang of metal in the distance. “Where do we start, coach?”

"Oh! Right. Uh." For all that he is a capable fighter, he is still a kid. And, put into the position of a teacher, this kid is still predictably awkward.  
  
"So, reaction time is probably the place to start," he says, and hops over the fence. There's a barrel of bo staves that he passes, and he pulls one out to toss to Clarke. "Let's see what you can do."

She weighs the staff in her hands. It’s heavier than she expected, but balanced. Easy enough to maneuver. Clarke hops a little on her feet, trying to get some warmth into her muscles. She has some confidence in her ability to learn quickly - but she is also increasingly confident that she’s about to get beaten up by a kid.

They pace a few yards away, picking out a corner of the fenced-in area that is unlikely to be needed by Lexa and Indra. Once they do, Ronnie turns to face her.  
  
"Okay. Hold the staff like this," he says, and takes the weapon in both hands so that it's diagonal across his body. "Stand like this," he steps one foot back, so he's almost perpendicular to her, "And try to stop my staff from hitting you."

“Simple enough,” Clarke mutters just before Ronnie swings his staff around at her side. She manages to block it - sort of. It still smacks her side, but not as aggressively as it would have. “Ow.”  
  
Ronnie backs up and looks at her seriously. “Okay, now try to block it sooner.”  
  
“I did block it. Technically.”  
  
“Cool, well you’d technically be mortally wounded if this were a real weapon.”  
  
Clarke makes a face at him and Ronnie laughs. “Just remember, it’s always better to not get hit, even if you have to give up some ground. In a real fight, you won’t want to be hit even once.”  
  
“Wise advice.” She moves back into the position Ronnie showed her and readies her staff.  
  
“ _Heda_ told me that,” Ronnie says, and Clarke has just enough time to roll her eyes and think _of course she did_ before he swipes down at her legs.

They continue like this for a few minutes more, and Clarke gets the sense that Ronnie is cataloging her - that this is more of an exercise for him than for her. Apparently satisfied after that, he takes the staff from her and grabs a pair of those wooden swords from the day before.  
  
"Here," he says, handing her one. "Repeat after me."  
  
He proceeds to move through what she imagines is a form, each position purposeful and planned. Once she gets a sense of the moves he steps aside to watch, stopping her as needed to fix the occasional misstep or improve a stance. Midway through, she becomes aware of the relative silence around her. Lexa and Indra have stopped, and the former now moves into view, leaning against a section of fencing and sipping from a canteen as she watches.

Clarke’s face colors under Lexa’s scrutiny. Sparring was a new concept for her, but after a few minutes she’d picked up on Ronnie’s movements. Even if she’d had to sidestep a little too quickly or hop backwards a step too far, she’d been able to react more or less in time with Ronnie’s attacks.  
  
But this exercise requires more slow, methodical movements. Putting herself in a space of quiet mindfulness isn’t easy when she’s alone, and Lexa’s silent presence adds a whole new level of distraction. Ronnie corrects her a few times on the same motion and Clarke grits her teeth. This isn’t that complicated, it should be easy. Her heart rate increases, pounding in her chest. She should be flowing through this, Lexa’s attention be damne-  
  
Clarke trips over her own boot and staggers back several paces. She managers to just catch herself and curses. Ronnie shrugs and gives her a reassuring smile. “You’re getting it, don’t worry. I got frustrated too when I started.”  
  
His voice is so sincere and sympathetic, it’s impossible for Clarke not to soften a little bit. He’d make an interesting Commander someday, if he’s able to retain that kindness.  
  
The thought makes her sad in a multitude of ways.

They continue for several minutes before Clarke hears a commotion from behind her. Lexa notices as well, and straightens up from where she's leaning on the fence. The rest of the Nightbloods have arrived.  
  
She catches the Commander's eye, and for a moment it looks like she might say something to Clarke. Then she looks at Ronnie, and says, "Don't be late, _shodi_."  
  
" _Sha, Heda_."

Before she can think, Clarke takes several steps toward Lexa’s retreating form, her knuckles gripped tight around the wooden sword.  
  
“Clarke?” She glances back at Ronnie, who’s looking at her quizzically.  
  
Clarke stops. She takes a deep breath and glares daggers at Lexa’s back. She didn’t even speak to her...Lexa just looked past her, like Clarke wasn’t even there.  
  
“Sorry, Ronnie.” She turns back to him and hands him the sword, half to return it and half because she’s no longer sure what she’ll do with it if it stays in her hands. “Thanks for showing me some moves. Think I improved at all?”

"I think you did. Maybe not right now, immediately," he grins a little, "But you show promise. Do you..." That grin fades a little, as he looks by her to Lexa, "Need to talk to _Heda?"_

“Doesn’t seem like it, does it?” Poor Ronnie looks at her with the most confused and helpless look on his face. She gives him one last smile and squeezes his shoulder. “If you think I show promise, you are the nicest warrior I have ever met. Keep taking pity on me and I’ll keep showing up. For now, looks like you’ll be late if you don’t hurry.”

"Right! Yes." He hefts both the false swords. "So tomorrow, then?"  
  
He doesn't wait for an answer, already backing away from her towards the barrels that hold the various training equipments. There's little left for her to do, it seems, but to leave then; her would-be instructor is off to join his class, Lexa hasn't spared so much as a second for her since that first morning, and Indra has disappeared to who knows where. So she hops the fence and heads back to the tower.  
  
Regardless of whatever improvement she did or did not make, Ronnie's lesson had been difficult work - and she is starving. She steals a handful of dried fruits and a stick of some kind of salted meat from the kitchen, narrowly avoiding Tera's gaze. The older woman is always kind to her, but at the moment she isn't particularly interested in talking to others. Funny how thinking of Lexa tends to do that to her.  
  
She eats as she takes the steps two at a time to the room she's been staying in, where she speeds through preparations to head out once more. Unwilling to stay in this space any longer than she has to, she stuffs the rest of her pilfered snack into one coat pocket, her charcoal and map in the other, and strikes out into yet another new part of the city. She must have half of it covered by now, and it's something to keep her hands and her feet busy.  
  
Her head is another matter, however. Though keeping track of where she is and translating that into her charcoal sketches does require attention, she can't seem to focus for too long before that damn look Lexa gave her floats to the top of her mind again.

This is her third day here, in Lexa's city, and the Commander has said a handful of sentences to her. Admittedly Clarke had been holding a knife to Lexa's throat for half those sentences...Clarke's face flushes at the memory. Her whole life, she's been thoughtful. Quick to improvise. Impulsive sometimes, reckless even, but she always manages to regain control. Always sure of her own actions even as they're in motion, always thinking everything through even as words leave her mouth. She's always been that way. Always, until recently.  
  
She hadn't even realized what she was doing. It was like she had opened her eyes and her knife was against Lexa's skin, a thin line of black blood dripping down her neck. The Old Clarke would think that and hate what it means. She would hate that she'd lost control so easily, force herself to never be put in that situation again. But the New Clarke just feels so angry - and she is not interested in letting it go, no matter the consequences.  
  
Clarke doesn't even hear the music until someone bumps into her, forcing her thoughts back into the present. A high-pitched, playful tune lilts through the air, drawing people forward down the street she's on. She follows the crowd to the end of the block and around the corner and comes face to face with an even larger group of people than had been at the tower yesterday afternoon. It seems as though anyone who could hear the music must have come to see it, which it occurs to Clarke is likely the case.  
  
A man standing on two wooden, overturned crates plays what Clarke assumes is a type of flute. Or a clarinet? Some long, wooden instrument - something that might have required a reed before the war, but now must work some other way. However he's playing it, he seems to be doing it well. The crowd laughs and claps along to the song, totally out of rhythm, but not one of them seems to care or even notice.  
  
The man's tune rises to a single, screechingly loud note before cutting off. He bows and shakes the hands of people in front of him, laughing along with them. Clarke rolls her eyes, even as a small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. After everything she's seen since coming to Earth, sometimes she forgets what a miracle it is that life still goes on. In many ways differently, but in so many others the same. That life exists at all, really.  
  
A woman jumps up on the crates next to the man with the flute and declares something to the crowd in Trigedaslang. They all cheer, louder this time, and she hops back down. She drags two more crates over and sets them up next to the flute player’s, as well as a bucket and a large pot. She pulls two sticks out of the folds of her dress - two twigs, more like - and begins to snap her fingers. The flute player brings his instrument back to his lips and begins to play, at first struggling to keep with the rhythm of the woman’s snapping. But soon he gets it, falling into a faster paced tune that everyone again seems to recognize. The woman with the sticks smiles and snaps a few more times before beginning to drum on her makeshift instruments.  
  
It shouldn’t work, but somehow it does. They listen to each other, work out the harmony-halting kinks and missteps, and within a minute they’ve picked up a tune that Clarke would’ve otherwise sworn they must know by heart. She finds herself laughing and tapping her foot along to the beat.  
  
And then the drummer bangs on the pot, and Clarke’s smile turns into a frown. It’s a sharp clang, almost like metal on metal, though she knows the woman is still using her wooden sticks.  
  
She bangs on it again and Clarke cringes. Flashes of an army run through her head, an image of metal doors and sealed hatches, a small room with a single switch...  
  
 _Clang_. Clarke shudders and takes a step back. A gust of wind whips around the crowd, whistles through the tight corners and spaces between their bodies. It makes the flute’s notes sound more ethereal, whirring on the wind. Whirring like a fan blade through air...  
  
 _Clang_. A dog growls somewhere to Clarke’s right. She can’t see it, not through this many people, but she knows it’s there. Her heart rate increases, pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer in her chest. Pounding so much it hurts her head. _Clang_. Her breath feels shallow, like she can’t get enough air. She looks down and sees her knife in her hand and feels her teeth pull back in a snarl.  
  
Someone puts a hand on her shoulder and she whips around —  
  
An older woman with a shawl wrapped around her bald head looks at her. Her eyes are grey and squinting, her head cocked to the side. Clarke quickly clamps down on her right wrist with her left, holding her own arm back with some difficulty. She’d been inches from putting her knife in the woman’s belly and her right arm muscles still quiver with momentum, straining against the hand holding them back.  
  
It takes her a moment to recognize the older woman’s expression. Worry. Confusion. Clarke tears her gaze from her and takes in her surroundings as quickly as possible. She’s still here, still listening to music, still standing in the same crowd. She takes several deep breaths, tries to steady her breathing...  
  
 _Clang clang!_ Clarke visibly jumps, her heart rising halfway up her throat. The older woman’s eyes move farther down and widen when she sees the knife clenched in Clarke’s fist.

Clarke follows her eyes down and then back up to the woman, whose mouth seems to open in slow motion.  
  
And then Clarke runs. She pushes her away as hard as she can, ignoring the annoyed cries and angry shouts of the crowd, and sprints back the way she came.

At first she isn't sure where her feet are taking her. She has enough sense to put away her knife, at least, but it isn't until she sees the gate of the tower looming in front of her that she knows. Panic turns to anger, her lips set in a hard line and a frown crumples her brow, her teeth grit against each other. She bolts out of the elevator, and takes the steps upwards two at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliff hanger :D
> 
> Full discosure: we renamed Aden. Initially it was an inside reference to a friend of ours - heyo, Emily! - to name him Ronnie, but then it kinda stuck. So Aden is now Ronnie. #thefamilyHeda


	4. Every Wandering Bark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Alcohol

The heavy door, emblazoned with a flame, explodes open at her touch. None of the guards had paid her any mind as she’d rounded the corner, but now she hears heavy boots coming down the hall in her direction. She pays them little mind, however, because before her is Lexa; somehow she managed to catch the Commander in a rare moment of relaxation. Without her coat or pauldron, she had been lounging on the couch with a letter in her hand, but now bolts to her feet in obvious surprise. She opens her mouth to speak, but Clarke doesn't give her the opportunity.

"You know. I've had about enough of this bullshit. It's really nice that you can just avoid this," Clarke gestures haphazardly at herself and the space between them, "that must be really great for you, but I've had about enough of walking around here like a fucking ghost. So would you care to tell me why the _fuck_ you've been avoiding me?"

A mess of emotions cross Lexa's face in rapid succession - confusion, hurt, frustration, anger - but they all disappear as gloved hands grab Clarke's arms from behind.  
  
"No," she says firmly, looking over Clarke's shoulders. She's struggling against the guards' hands even as she does so. " _Teik em gonot raun en ousir au_."  
  
The guards are confused for a moment, visible even in the depths of their helmets. Their grip loosens enough that Clarke is able to yank her arms out of it, but they make no move to leave. Not until Lexa, annoyed by their hesitation, points back the way they came and snaps, " _Ousir!"_  
  
When they do leave, they shut the door behind them. Lexa strides past Clarke and locks it with a _click_. "I did not think my presence was something you wanted," she says, even as the lock slides home, "So I did not bother you with it."

"Oh, how noble of you." Clarke fidgets at Lexa's closeness, now just a foot away from her at the door, but she stands her ground. "How very considerate you've been to completely ignore me, like I'm fucking invisible, even when you're six feet away from me. I'm amazed you can see me right now, in fact."

"Mockery is not the product of a strong mind, Clarke," Lexa answers, calling back to the last time they were locked away together in a room. She moves away, taking up a position in the empty space between the door and the couch several feet from Clarke. 

"Maybe it's the product of a tired one." Clarke folds her hands into fists at her sides. "I'm tired of pretending like nothing happened. I'm tired of hearing that you brought me here just for my protection. I'm tired of you trying to convince me and yourself that you're avoiding me because that's what I want. I'm tired of the fact that you can just ignore what happened at the Mountain until I leave, but I have to think about what that decision meant _every. Single. Day_."  
  
Clarke can feel her nails digging deeper and deeper into her palms with the force of her grip. "Mockery may not be the product of a strong mind, but projecting isn't the product of a strong will. You're either pretending that you don't care about what you did or you're heartless enough that this act is real, but whichever one it is, your choice to avoid this is your own."

A sense of solemn resignation had settled over Lexa’s face as she stared down the barrage that is Clarke, her hands folded behind her back and an expression of saintly, martyrous peace on her face. Until Clarke drops the word _heartless_ , at which point that mask gives way to a frown of irritation and the beginning sparks of temper. “Of course I care!” Lexa answers in a tone that is dangerously close to a snap. “I have avoided speaking to you about the Mountain because you _expressly_ told me you did not wish to!”

“So the obvious solution was to avoid me altogether?” Clarke rolls her eyes with such force that it hurts her head. “And since when does what I want factor into your decisions?”

“What you want has _always_ factored into my decisions,” Lexa retorts, and another Clarke, in another place, might have been surprised by the bitterness that accompanies the words. But this Clarke is just pissed. “So yes, I did my best to stay out of your way so as to prevent this exact thing from happening.”

“Oh I see,” Clarke scoffs in a tone that resides somewhere on the border of cruelty and sarcasm, “well isn’t that nice of you, to take my feelings into consideration here and there when it’s convenient. The least you could do is face what you’ve done, instead of avoiding it - avoiding _me_ \- like a coward.”

“Fine.” Lexa pushes the word out through her teeth, her jaw locked against the accusation of _coward_. It stays that way for a beat, and Lexa holds Clarke’s gaze with an unflinching steadiness. When it comes unstuck again, she says, “I did what I had to do for my people. Same as you. I will not apologize for that.”

"It was _not_ the same as me.” Clarke doesn’t think about moving - her feet decide for her. One moment she’s several paces from Lexa in the doorway and the next she’s just a step or two away. “Your actions forced me to murder hundreds of people. Hundreds of _innocent people_. No matter what you say, I did what I did because of _you_.” Lexa takes one, then two steps back, attempting to keep space between them - when her lower back collides with the foot of the couch. “I'm not a child, Lexa. I know why you did it, and I'm not demanding something as petty as an apology. I know if you gave me one it would just be a lie.” Somewhere in the back of Clarke’s mind it registers that Lexa’s jaw clenches and her breath catches as she’s forced to stop - and as Clarke decidedly doesn’t. Not until their noses are no more than a few inches apart and Lexa’s leaned far enough back that her hands move to grasp the arm of the couch to support her. “But the fact remains that you made a choice. And that choice affected my people. That choice affected _me_. And your insistence that you somehow have the high ground in this situation, that you're above feeling anything about what that means, that you're somehow 'sparing me' by avoiding even looking at me - those are also lies."

Lexa’s eyes move quickly back and forth between Clarke’s, the tendons in her neck betraying the fact that the whole of her body is wound like a spring. Perhaps that little detail is what allows Clarke to move so fast; it signals to her that Lexa intends to bolt a second before she does. Her eyes leave Clarke’s and she turns, pushing herself up off the couch and into Clarke’s space for just a fraction of a second before she tries to slide by her - but Clarke shifts her stance, following Lexa with a half step to the left to cut off her means of escape. She stares the Commander down and Lexa stops in her tracks, her lips slightly parted as she’s pinned in place by Clarke’s glare.

And then Clarke sees why Lexa would attempt to flee. She sees the crack in her impervious armor that Lexa did not want her to see, and Lexa takes a slow breath in. 

“I never meant to hurt you, Clarke,” she says, and there is the faintest of tremors in her voice.

“But you did.” Strangely, Clarke’s heart rate feels like it’s slowing for the first time in an hour. Like just saying it out loud releases some of the tightness in her chest. “And not just me."

"I know." Lexa holds her gaze for several seconds, the muscles in her jaw twitching, but Clarke doesn't relieve her of the weight of the silence that falls between them. She's going to need a hell of a lot more than that, and Lexa knows that. 

When at last Lexa breaks the stillness, it's to make a second attempt at stepping past Clarke. She watches Clarke the whole time, the look in her eye part caution and part warning, and Clarke doesn't stop her as she pushes past. Instead, she turns to watch Lexa cross to the cabinet in the corner of the room that holds the same carafe it did last time she was here - except that this time, when Lexa tips its contents into a cup, something dark and red pours out. Lexa lifts the cup to her lips, but pauses halfway there. Still facing the wall and away from Clarke, she slowly puts the cup back down again.  
  
"I am sorry that it happened," she says finally. It may have been an empty and infuriating response any other time, but there's weight in Lexa's voice, sincerity. She turns to face her, cup in hand, and meets Clarke's eyes. "I knew what the consequences were, for your people. And for you. I felt them, as if they were my own. They have been my own."

Clarke’s hands relax, slowly. Her eyebrows pull together at the soreness in her fingers - she has to force them from their curled position. But Lexa has given her an honest answer, and that somehow makes it easier to breathe. “You’ll forgive me if I have a hard time accepting that.”

"You have no reason to," Lexa admits. "And I don't know that there is much that I can say to convince you of it. Suffice to say that I..." She breaks off. She glances up at Clarke, and crosses the room to sit on the couch again. "I meant what I said, Clarke, before the battle. I still do. But I could not act as myself in that moment, no matter how I wished I could. I had the lives of my people to think about, my duty to protect them. I will not say that I had no choice; there is always a choice. But I could not ignore that responsibility."

“I know something about choices.” Clarke sits down next to Lexa without thinking. Her muscles tense when she realizes how close they are, and she swears she feels Lexa stiffen as well. “And their consequences. I never expected you to apologize. I know why you did it. But forgiving you feels like betraying my friends and the people I love. If I even could forgive you.” She sighs and looks over at Lexa. Green eyes flash back and forth over her face, searching it. “I don’t know if I can. I don’t know what that would mean for my people. Or for me.”

Lexa just nods, eyes falling to her drink again. "I know," she says quietly. "And so I have been...as you said, avoiding you."

"Well if you had any hope of changing my mind, avoiding me probably won't help." Clarke's eyes widen at her voice - it had a nearly lighthearted tone to it. The sound of it is so foreign, even to her own ears. "Um," she clears her throat and glances down, grasping for something... "what exactly are you drinking?"

For once, Lexa seems as lost as her. "Oh, it's..." She struggles for a moment. "In Trigedasleng it's _v_ _ino_ , but--"

"Wine." Clarke's eyebrows knit together curiously. "Right? _Vinum_ is wine in Latin..." She glances up at Lexa, whose eyebrows are nearly on top of her forehead. "Some of the books we had on the Ark were very poorly translated. And old. And...snobby."

"Snobby?" Lexa repeats, her eyebrows lowering only slightly.

“It means...unnecessarily fancy sounding.”

The ghost of a smile passes over Lexa's lips. "Would you like to try some?"

Clarke clears her throat again. “Yes, I’ll try some. Why not.”

Lexa sets her cup down on the low table in front of them, and stands. She crosses to fill another cup with the heady red drink, and returns to hand it to Clarke.  
  
"I will warn you, it is not the best," she says as she sits, "And it tastes a little like dirt. But I enjoy it."

Clarke sips the drink carefully. She may never have had wine, but she has had the occasional sip of moonshine - and if you aren't prepared before sipping moonshine, it usually comes right back up.  
  
But this tastes completely different. It's smoother, for one thing. And it does taste a little like dirt - like earth, really. Like it was pumped through soil before ending up here. It's an odd taste, but not an unpleasant one.  
  
"I see why you like it." Clarke sips the wine again, this time with a little more confidence. "What do you mean, it's not the best?"

"There are different kinds of wine, and different ways of making it. It also ages, so the very nice wines are also very old - a few years, at least." She swirls the contents of her cup. "The wine that will be served at the First Fall dinner will be nicer."

"The alcohol I'm familiar with is terrible from beginning to end." Clarke considers the red liquid in her cup with a new appreciation. Her mind flashes back to the arrival of the strangers the day before, when Lexa welcomed the woman in blue. "What exactly do these First Fall celebrations entail?”

Lexa's jaw is working again, and she's giving her wine a harder look than would be in any way merited by Clarke's question. Then she looks up, leveling a serious look at Clarke. "Is there anything else you would like to say about the Mountain?" she asks. "Or do you honestly want to know?"

Clarke meets her gaze, tries to gauge how serious she is. Lexa's eyes don't waver from hers. "No," Clarke says. "I said what I wanted to. I...I don't know how to fix this. Or if it can be fixed. I can't trust you anymore, but..." Clarke sighs. She takes a drink of her wine and barely holds back a cough - clearly gulping it is not the right decision. "I'd like to trust you again. Don't ask me how, because I have no idea, but I'd like to. And that feels like...something."

It does feel like something, and Lexa seems to think so too. She nods once, definitively, and drinks.  
  
"There are different ways to celebrate - as with most things, I suppose," she says after, and sets down her cup. It's empty. "For those who are close to each other - friends, family, lovers - there is often an exchanging of gifts. For us, though," Clarke can tell she's talking about the other guests that are decidedly not her, "There will be a celebration. A feast, outdoors, with oaths of friendship and shared meals. There is music, a great fire, and as the casks run low, inevitably there is dancing." A fleeting smile crosses her face. "Above all, though, it is politics for those of us who play the game."

“You had me until politics.”

"Mm. I sympathize."  
  
Lexa eyes her for a moment. "Do you still plan to leave before then?"

Clarke meets her gaze. “Is there a reason I should stay?”

Lexa opens her mouth to respond, but no words come out. And perhaps it is the wine, perhaps it is the fire, or perhaps it's something that Clarke can't let herself consider, but her cheeks have reddened ever so slightly. The Commander of the Twelve Clans is _blushing_.  
  
She drops her gaze, picks up the cups, and stands.  
  
"It would not help you if you wish to go into hiding again," she admits, returning to the carafe for refills. "But if you decide against that, it could serve as a way to introduce yourself."

Clarke examines Lexa’s back as she moves to fill their cups again. The way her right shoulder blade curves up against her shirt when she pours...she blinks a few times and shakes her head. She really hasn’t eaten enough today. “Introduce myself? As what, exactly? _Wanheda?"_

"If that is what you would prefer." The carafe clacks down on the wooden surface, and she brings the cups back and offers one to Clarke. "Though, I doubt that you will be thought of in any other way."

“It is the opposite of what I’d prefer, which makes the prospect of staying somewhat less appealing.” She sighs and takes the cup from Lexa’s hand. “But I suppose I’ll have to face that reality sooner or later.”

"It is not a story that will soon be forgotten," Lexa agrees, and sits down - decidedly further away from Clarke than she had been before. "Some have written songs about you. You have become a popular figure in the Clans."

Now it’s Clarke’s turn to blush. “Songs? Why?”

"I've already told you." A fond little smile appears on her face. It makes something in Clarke squirm. "You have become a legend, Clarke. The Mountain Men killed and kidnapped and harassed my people for generations. Parents would use them to scare misbehaving children. And you destroyed them in a single night. Some fear you, it is true. But many others celebrate what you have done for us. And all of them respect you."

“Murder isn’t...” Clarke stops herself. She’s allowed herself to wallow in her own perspective of what she’s done, ignoring the reality of the way others would see it. She may not agree with them, but that doesn’t change the fact that their understanding of what happened is different than hers. Is valid, like hers - if in a different way. She groans, more at herself than at anything. Ignoring these realities and not caring about them is so much easier.  
  
“I understand how they must see it,” Clarke starts again. “But even if I can understand it, I can’t share in their respect. There’s nothing respectable about killing.”

"It isn't the killing that is respectable," Lexa answers, clearly ready to debate the issue. It makes Clarke wonder how many times she's engaged it before. "Killing, destruction, war... That's all easy. But peace? Saving lives? That is harder. You protected your people at a great cost to yourself, and in the process ended a war that has gone on for nearly a century. That deserves respect."

"But that isn't all that happened. Civilians were killed - _children_ were killed." Clarke swallows. "I made that choice, and I can't unmake it. The reality is that I didn't do much besides pull a lever. Bellamy brought down their defenses, Monty reprogrammed the fans...it was my choice, and I made it. But I don't deserve respect for flipping a switch and killing innocent people."

"Don't you think their president deserves some of that blame as well?" Lexa asks. "He gambled with their lives, and he gambled poorly. He underestimated you, forced your hand, and his people paid the price."

"Sharing blame with someone like him doesn't really absolve me of any wrongdoing. In fact, I'd prefer not to compare the two of us. Though I often do." Clarke sips absently at the wine in her hand. "I know why people call me _Wanheda_. I know it has more to do with the destruction of Mount Weather than how exactly it was destroyed. But when I hear that, all I can think is that innocent people are dead because of me. We can argue all day about the benefits of my decision and how that might outweigh the worth of those people's lives, but it doesn't change the fact that they were innocent. And I killed them."

Those words hang in the air for a while, and in the silence, Lexa's green eyes search hers. Then, quietly, "It is often the unfortunate cost of war. The Mountain Men showed they were willing to pay it when they dropped fire on Ton DC. I have paid it myself, both then and before." She looks down, runs her thumb against the edge of her cup, and sighs. "Bearing the weight of decisions like that is what it means to lead. Whether you have chosen to do so or are chosen, it is your responsibility to bear it so that your people don't have to. They can look at you, can speak your name with honor and respect, because they don't have to know what that weight is, or what it feels like."

Clarke cocks her head, considering Lexa. How did she end up here, commiserating with the woman she's spent months hating? Or perhaps, if she's being honest with herself, convincing herself that she hates. "I never thought we'd be here. I thought I'd never..." Clarke closes her mouth, presses her lips together tight. She hadn't realized she was thinking out loud. She glares down accusingly at the wine in her cup. The fact that it's still alcohol had slipped her mind, but the wine has made her feel... braver? No, that's not it - not all of it. More like looser. No sooner does the thought come than a wave of anxiety washes over her. So her need for control hasn't entirely gone away, then.  
  
"Is that something you'd suggest I do?" She puts the half drunk cup of wine down on the table in front of her and leans back. "Introduce myself, as you put it, to the other clans? As _Wanheda?"_

Lexa's eyes flash up to hers, and then purposefully away. "Who are you asking?" She asks, and drinks from her cup.

Clarke frowns. "What do you mean, who am I asking?"

"Do you want my political opinion? Are you looking for confirmation of your own thoughts?" Lexa looks again at her. "Do you want _my_ opinion?"

"If I were looking for confirmation of my own opinion, I wouldn't have asked." Clarke leans forward. "I want..." She rolls her eyes at herself and takes another swig of wine. What the hell, she's gone this far. Why not see it through. "I want both. Your political opinion and _your_ opinion."

A smile flickers across Lexa's lips, and she sits forward as well. Resting her elbows on her knees, cup held between her hands, she says, "Politically speaking, you are in a position of power right now - one greater than the Sky People have ever had to leverage. One perhaps that rivals even mine." She looks at Clarke, and grins a little. "You could do a lot of good to protect your people, and it would be foolish to throw that away. But personally..."  
  
She looks down again, hesitates a beat. "It will be dangerous. The game always is - once one has power, one becomes a target. And I don't like the idea of you in danger." She sits back. "But you will be in danger, even if you flee. And I believe that you and I can do great things together. If you are willing to," she hastens to add. Another pause, as she tries to find the right words. "Perhaps selfishly, I would like to work with you again."

Clarke sips her drink to give herself a moment to think. There it is, she thinks. The decision she would always have had to make, if she stays here. She doesn't feel ready to make it, but then again when has she ever felt ready to make the decisions she's made over the past year?  
  
"So your political and personal opinions are the same," Clarke says. "Effectively. My supposed title could help my people. Perhaps that's true, somehow. And you don't like the idea of me in danger."  
  
She sips from her cup again as she scans Lexa's posture - eager, confident. Sincere, but she's always sincere. That's something that's always struck Clarke as unique about Lexa - as careful as she is with her words, they are nearly always said with sincerity. "And you want to work together, despite the conversation we've just finished having." Lexa looks like she's about to interrupt, but Clarke doesn't let her. "I'm in danger if I leave, I'm in danger if I stay and exert my power - apparently the reason I'm here in the first place is because of this Ice Queen, who presents a danger to me regardless of what decision I make. I asked for your opinion, but my desire to forgive you is not enough to allow me to forget everything after one conversation. That being said," Clarke levels her gaze at Lexa - god, her eyes are _so_ green - "I believe you. That you'd like to work together again, that is. I've come to terms with the fact that I can't run forever. So what exactly do you have in mind?"

Lexa just looks at her a moment, as though she didn't expect that to go quite so easily. "Well." She shifts gears, cogs turning behind her eyes. "No one yet knows that you're here. The official story continues to be that no one knows where you are. You can take time to think about this, then. But...I would suggest making an appearance at the First Fall festival."

"That strikes me as a little dramatic. Unveiling _Wanheda_ in front of all the clans, in the middle of a festival." Clarke sighs. This conversation is beginning to make her head hurt. Or maybe it's the wine - or both. Definitely both. "What's to stop this Ice Queen from doing...whatever it is you're afraid she will do, once she knows who I am? I don't want to put my people in danger by drawing this person's anger—though I don't know much about her, besides what little you've told me."

"Dramatic is what you _want_ ," Lexa answers, surging suddenly to her feet. She steps around the low table, cup still in hand, and begins to pace. "Appearances can be every bit as important as substance in situations like these. And if you do appear then, of your own accord, on your own terms, it will help to establish you as an independent player. I will not introduce you - you would not want to be my guest, I assume, and it is just as well."  
  
She stops in front of a pile of books, looking down at the cover of the topmost one. "If you show yourself there, for all the clans to see, your name and your face will become known. It will not prevent _Azgeda_ from engaging in whatever subterfuge it will, but it will at least prevent them from stealing you in the dark. The other clans would not abide seeing you taken prisoner without reason."

"Dramatic is typically the opposite of what I want." Clarke mutters. She watches Lexa move about the room and can't help a smirk from forming on her face. It's as if Lexa's movements are directly tied to the speed of her thoughts. "But I'll think about it. How much time do I have before this festival begins?"

"It can be difficult to tell," Lexa admits, turning to look at her. "It will not happen until all the clans' representatives have arrived, and that should be complete in the next two days. And then we wait for the first snow - if it hasn't happened by then."

Clarke thinks of the group of soldiers riding to the tower the day before, the woman leading them who embraced Lexa. "Who's arrived so far?"

"You have seen Indra already. She is here with the Tree People. Then there is the Boat People, and the Rock Line People, who arrived yesterday and today respectively. _Trishanakru_ , the Glowing Forest, are expected to arrive some time this evening."

Clarke finishes her wine and licks her lips absently. "I suppose I should make myself scarce until this festival, if I do decide to take your advice."

"Most will not recognize you, I imagine." A thought strikes Lexa, and she begins moving around the room again, gathering pieces of paper. "News of _Skaikru's_ existence and its deeds - _your_ deeds - will have reached some corners of Coalition land by now, but we do not have technology like the Mountain's; any depictions of you would have been sketches, at best. As long as you do not draw attention to yourself, you will be fine."  
  
Finishing in her task, she returns to Clarke with twelve sheets of paper. "These are my most recent dossiers on the clan leaders. They are yours for your perusal, if you would like them."

“That... would be very helpful, actually.” Clarke takes them and looks into Lexa’s eyes again. It makes her chest ache to be so close to her for so long, even after everything. “Thank you.”

"It is the least I can do," she says, and there is a small tone of guilt to her voice.

“Yes, probably.” Clarke could easily dig in more or leave it at that, but instead she hears herself say, “You could also say hello now and again. If it’s not too much effort.”

It's possible that she's never seen Lexa smile quite as fully as she does at that, amusement mixed with something else - fondness? - in her eyes. "Do you think you will continue meeting with Ronnie in the yard?"

“I would like to,” Clarke admits. “I’m sure I’m not doing him any favors, distracting him from his duties. But I enjoyed myself this morning. He’s a good teacher, but mostly I just like him.” He’s also the only person, besides Tera, who she’s really felt comfortable with since being here, but that seems unnecessary to share.

"He is very skilled," Lexa agrees, "And it may not be unwise to learn some self defense. You have proven yourself capable time and again, I have no delusions about that - but this world will likely become more dangerous before it gets safer." A moment. "But I will be sure to say hello tomorrow morning."

“I’d appreciate that.” Clarke puts her cup down and finally stands. She feels a rush of dizziness but she expected it - she closes her eyes for a moment to gain her composure, hoping it looks like she’s taking a second to think rather than a necessary moment to make sure she’s capable of walking.  
  
Now that she’s standing, Clarke is mere inches from Lexa. “Is that my cue to leave?”

It takes Lexa a beat to answer, but she's been looking at Clarke since she stood up - she could feel her eyes. "If you would like to," she says with decidedly less confidence than she's had. "...did you finish the book?"

Clarke glances down at the slight bulge in her coat and takes the book from the inside pocket. “I did finish it. A bit...masculine, for my taste, but I enjoyed it. Thank you for letting me borrow it. And I didn’t say I would like to leave.” She raises an eyebrow. “I asked if you’d like me to go.”

Lexa's face pinkens again, just slightly. There is surprise in her eyes, and Clarke knows again that she's caught her off guard again. She tries to rally, and does a good show of putting on the Commander's face - but Clarke can see right through it. "I should get back to work," she says, "...but you are welcome to stay, if you wish."

“I don’t want to interrupt, but I wouldn’t mind working or reading here.” Clarke hesitates. She doesn’t know how much she’d really like to reveal about her mental state - after all, this is the first real conversation she and Lexa have had in months. But at the same time, keeping it all locked up inside hasn’t been working out incredibly well lately. She settles on part of the truth. “I think I’ve probably had enough of exploring and...people, for today. But I suspect being alone in my room would make me antsy. Would it bother you, if I stayed here while you work?”

There's no hesitation - Lexa shakes her head. "Not at all. Is there anything you need? Food? Water?" She looks around them pointedly. "Another book?"

“I would love another book. And...” Clarke absentmindedly touches her stomach and winces as it growls loudly, practically on cue. “I suppose I should eat something other than dried fruit today. Especially after the wine.”

Another grin. "Of course."  
  
There's a buzzer on Lexa's wall, same as there is in the room Clarke's been staying in. The Commander presses it, and afterwards begins perusing the piles of books with Clarke, offering this and that title. Before long Elena appears, with that same young girl Clarke had seen the first morning here; the former offers a smile to Clarke before she leaves to retrieve food, and the other goes about lighting candles in Lexa's room.  
  
The sun hasn't quite begun to set yet, but its angle leaves long shadows and dim lighting in much of the room. The candles, then, are actually quite helpful - and there are a _lot_ of them. Clarke hadn't noticed them before, as without a flame they are hardly remarkable. But now that they are alight, there's a veritable legion of them, scattered so that their light reaches literally every corner of the room. It takes the girl several minutes to complete her task, and when she does, she bows and leaves without a word.  
  
"This one is a collection of songs, more than fiction," Lexa says, almost to herself. They're standing together at a table in front of one of the windows, sorting through books and scrolls there. "But these...the same author created dialogues, and they share much of the same lyric quality..."

Clarke eyes the book in Lexa’s hands. “A written record of song lyrics? Who’s the author?”

Lexa has to flip the book open to check. "William Shakespeare?"  
  
“Which one?” Clarke has to stop herself from snatching the book from Lexa’s hands - and only barely succeeds. “I’ve only read one of his plays. _Macbeth_ , it’s called. But we had a few of his poems on the Ark that I used to read over and over as a kid...” she cuts herself off, realizing too late how unnecessary that much information is.  
  
"It is a collection, we know as much..." Lexa answers, apparently at a loss. It's then that there's another knock on the door, and she leaves the book in Clarke's hand as she goes to answer it.  
  
Elena has returned, and with more than food, it seems. As she sets a tray down with a warm meal and drink on the low table between the chairs and couch, she updates Lexa on the arrival times of the various clan attachés. Though the former looks occasionally askance at Clarke as she speaks in low Trigedasleng, Lexa doesn't seem to pay it any mind. She stands beside the low table, food forgotten, as she looks over the reports Elena has in her hands and comments on their developments.

Clarke can't make out much of what Elena says, but what she does glean makes it clear that there's something going on - maybe that someone has arrived? She isn't sure. Clarke absentmindedly sits down at the desk next to where she's standing, unsure of what else to do. The notion of feeling useless, of being a nuisance or a wallflower is so annoying that she considers getting up and leaving several times. Instead, she forces herself to look through the book in her hands. It is a collection of Shakespeare's poems, and far more of them than they had on the Ark. She flips through the thin pages carefully, searching for her favorite.

Before she finds it, she's vaguely aware of the conversation behind her coming to a close. Elena leaves, and Lexa stands munching on some kind of roll, the reports still in her hand. She sets them down after a moment, and brings the tray closer to Clarke.  
  
"Have you had a pie before?" She asks, and offers the tray's contents. It holds three more food items that look the same as the one in her hand; flakey, bread-like exterior steaming with warmth. Pies were a rarity on the Ark, as berries were delicate and costly to produce. But this...smells hearty, rather than sweet. Lexa takes another bite, and a dribble of what looks like gravy appears on her lip before she hides it behind her hand.

Clarke feels the corner of her mouth pull back in a half smile - the sort of smile she's told she makes without thinking, the thought of which instantly pushes it down into more of a frown. But she shakes her head, "No, I haven't. We didn't have the dough to spare for making dessert. And we certainly didn't have anything that smells like that. Not in a bad way," she quickly corrects herself. "It smells amazing."

"They're yours, if you would like." She sets the tray down on a corner of the desk. "It is poultry inside, and can be a hearty snack. Tera sends her regards, apparently."

"Hmm." Clarke smiles more genuinely at the pies in front of her and takes a bite. "Wow, that is. Just as good as I'd suspect." She can tell she's talking with her mouth full, but nearly a year on Earth has done very little to bolster her manners. "She's amazing. Tera, I mean. I don't think I've eaten any better since I came to Earth. Or even before, truthfully. And I'm reasonably confident I helped to make this, so you are welcome."

An eyebrow arches. "I did not realize you were a cook, Clarke."

Clarke opens her mouth to reply and then closes it again, realizing that she once again shared more than she would've liked - more than she normally would. Damn wine... "I have a lot of talents," she says instead, a little petulantly. "Unfortunately, I don't think cooking is one of them. Tera was kind enough to let me spend time in the kitchen, on the basis that I help out. It's just as well that plucking chickens was the extent of my job."

Lexa grins at that, amusement in her eyes even as she chews on another bite. "The dreaded _Wanheda_ ," she says when her mouth is clear, and turns to resume her seat on the couch a few paces away, "Reduced to plucking chickens by the tower cook."

"What would they say if they knew she likes poetry, too," Clarke mutters.

"That she is wise indeed, most likely." That the comment wasn't meant to be answered seems of little interest to Lexa, who settles in with a stack of papers. "And that she has impeccable taste."  
  
The room is quiet after that, and blessedly so. The only constant sound is the soft crackling of the fire, interspersed with the occasional sound of shifting papers or bodies. Clarke sinks into the quiet and into her book, but never quite forgets that she's not alone. Every so often a sound will draw her eyes up, just for a moment, to see that Lexa has changed positions, or gotten up to walk slowly around the room with her nose in a ream of paper. She even catches the Commander mouthing the words that she's reading on a few occasions, as though committing them to memory or parsing them with careful attention.

Clarke feels her body relax in a way it hasn't during her waking hours in months. It makes the sore muscles she obtained from that morning's session with Ronnie feel that much more prominent, but it's a small price to pay. Lexa sits mostly on one side of the couch and her movements, while quiet, are numerous, giving Clarke nearly free reign to stretch out and read.  
  
The book Lexa had given her is in fact a collection of poems by Shakespeare. Clarke has read a few of his sonnets, she thinks she recalls that being their name, but the Ark only had a record of four or five of them. Clarke had committed at least three of them to memory, she read them so often. They have, as Lexa put it, a lyrical quality to them that Clarke hears in her head as a chant or a slow, lilting song. The rhythm of it felt calming to her as a kid, and would conjure up images of huge ships navigating endless seas - of flowers, all of various colors and shapes, budding in dense numbers on trees and bushes - of ticking clocks and gloomy, melancholy spaces as often as tender and happy ones. Now, as she's reading through others that she's never read, she realizes that the images they bring to mind are far more visceral. Gentle touches, angry words that lash like whips, cold walls that spring at a moment's notice - peaceful, quiet companionship.  
  
Clarke physically shakes her head and realizes she's been murmuring the words aloud to herself. The last time she'd read the poems on the Ark couldn't have been more than a year or two ago, and yet it feels a world away. The words had never meant more than the fantastical images they created, but now those images bring with them sensations and memories - things she'd forgotten she'd ever felt, and things she doesn't understand even as she experiences them. It's a little disconcerting, and after an hour or so Clarke pushes herself up off the couch (with some effort) and reaches into her coat - now slung over a nearby chair - for the charcoal and extra parchment she'd brought with her.  
  
There's a small desk by a window in the corner of the room. Clarke pulls a chair up behind it and sets out the blank parchment and charcoal. It occurs to her that she's drawn more in the last three days than she has...well, since she got to Earth, really. If not for months before. The familiar feeling of charcoal in her hand, of seeing the image in her mind's eye and letting it guide her hand to shape it on paper. _The star to every wandering bark...that looks on tempests and is never shaken..._ She loses herself in the familiarity of the image in front of her. It might be almost a year at this point since she's drawn anything, let alone something more interesting than a crude map in the dirt, but she's been drawing this for years. It takes her no more than thirty minutes to create a reasonably passable version of the familiar scene - a ship with enormous, billowing sails, roiling in a churning sea but still, for the moment, defiantly upright.

She's re-sketching the line of the mast when she realizes she's being watched. She looks up to find that Lexa has shifted to put her back against the arm of the sofa, her papers propped against her knees, and is looking at her curiously.

Clarke feels suddenly, and annoyingly, self conscious. "What?"

Lexa's quizzical expression doesn't change. "What are you doing?"

"Um," Clarke looks down at the drawing in front of her. Not exactly fleshed out or filled in, but the outline of the image is clear. "Drawing. Something I used to draw all the time, from one of these poems. It's a ship."

Intrigued, Lexa sets aside her papers and stands, coming closer. "Drawing?" She says, and there's surprise and curiosity in her voice. "I did not realize you were an artist."

"I've always enjoyed drawing. I think it was my way of escaping, as a kid. Now it's more of...a way to relax, I guess. Calms my mind." Clarke frowns at the waves hastily sketched at the bottom of the parchment. "I'm a bit out of practice, though."

"Nonsense," Lexa says, now peering over her shoulder. "The world has never seen so fine a vessel. Certainly not since the Fires."  
  
She looks at Clarke. "Do you prefer to work in charcoal?"

"Unless you have some pencils and erasers lying around, I think it's the best medium left to me. Besides," Clarke smudges a little bit of the charcoal waves with her thumb and redraws it, slightly higher this time, "it's somewhat erasable. If you aren't too picky about it."

Lexa nods, watching her movements quietly for a moment. Then, "You have no star."

"I...what?"

"You said it was based on one of the songs?" Lexa says, and quotes, " _It is the star to every wand’ring bark, whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken._ There's no star."

Clarke blinks at her, processing, then back down at her drawing. Why _isn't_ there a star?  
  
"I've honestly never thought about it. I think I always focused on the 'wandering' part...I don't think it ever really occurred to me that it would have a destination." She glances back up at Lexa curiously. "You know that poem by heart?"

The Commander offers a little shrug. Clarke doesn't think she's ever seen her shrug before. "There are a few that I enjoy frequenting, as well," she answers, and straightens up from inspecting the drawing. "And anyway, it isn't about the destination. It is about love."

"That's true." Clarke studies Lexa's face, even as the Commander still examines the lines of Clarke's sketch. "But a poor description of love, I think. Or at least an unrealistic one. 'An ever fixed mark,'" she recites. "I don't know that love is like that. In my experience, love is more mercurial than a star fixed in place. It's a road, not a destination."

Lexa looks for a moment like she wants to respond, but the words never come. Instead, she walks back towards the couch. "What do you mean, road?"

"Like," Clarke shades the hull of the ship lightly, thinking. "Love isn't a goal, I mean. It's not a star or some far off paradise. Like in the poem, the star is compared to love - something fixed forever in one place, intangible up in the sky. Something you can navigate toward but never reach. I don't know that I agree. I think love is more like this ship. At the mercy of its surroundings and of chance, but always moving forward. Everyone on board working together to reach for something, and only if they meet that challenge together does the ship survive."  
  
Clarke looks down and realizes that she hasn't been paying attention - she shaded the bow too heavily. "That's what I mean. Love is the road you walk down together, not the place you're going." She looks back up at Lexa and shrugs. "In my opinion, anyway."

Lexa takes a moment to absorb this, nodding slowly. "But...I do not think that is quite what is meant. By the star, I mean. A sailor doesn't navigate _toward_ a star, she navigates _by_ it. Even in the midst of a storm, if she can see the star, she knows where she is.  
  
"I think you are right - imagining that love is something that is immutable, entirely shiftless and constant, is to do it a disservice. But it seems to me that the author thinks it an anchor, nonetheless. One that helps to meet that challenge and survive, as you said."

“Hmm. Yes, perhaps.” Clarke can’t help but crack a smile. “Who would’ve guessed the Commander is a romantic?”

Lexa picks up her papers, and the smile she offers now is wry. It doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Perhaps she was, once," she says quietly.

“I suppose love has proven an anchor in every sense of the word, for both of us.” Clarke thinks of the story Lexa once told her - about the girl she loved, and what happened to her. How Lexa hasn’t needed to say that she blames herself. “But you shouldn’t let that part of yourself go. It’s who you are. I’m beginning to feel like who we are is all we’ll have left, one of these days.”

It's clear that Lexa's mind has gone there as well, and whatever ease she's had gradually disappears. She pulls into herself, and goes cold right before Clarke's eyes. "That may well be true," she says, but it isn't so much an answer as it is an endpoint. She doesn't want to continue this conversation, that much is clear. Her attention returns to her papers.

Clarke watches Lexa’s shoulders tense and follows the muscles in her neck, prominent from the strain of keeping them rigidly in place. She doesn’t say anything - she knows the desire for silence when she sees it. Instead she turns back to her drawing. She’s always drawn the same ship, and always as if it were caught in a storm. Why is that? It’s not as if the poem calls for a storm, it could just as easily be wandering through light winds on a sunny day. Had she always been so pessimistic? So skeptical of love and happiness? Clarke honestly can’t remember.  
  
She finishes her drawing, adds large wisps of clouds, rolling through the sky like the waves do the sea. But this time she leaves a space - just large enough for a small, shining star. Perhaps that will save the ship from the storm she’s placed it in, she thinks.  
  
Clarke leaves the drawing where it is on Lexa’s desk and wanders back toward the couch. She gives Lexa her space and glances over at the pile of reports Lexa had handed her earlier on the other clan leaders. She’d been avoiding looking at them, preferring to be lost in poetry, but it’s time she got back to reality. She takes the pile and walks across the room, situating herself on the floor in front of the fire.

The reports are brisk, clearly written with the intent of informing someone who already knew most of the details. As such, there's much she doesn't understand - names appear that are unfamiliar, references to events that she doesn't know as reasons for the events reported here - but she does glean some basics. The clan leaders' names are obvious, and she can decipher what the general relationships are; who likes who, who's in a trade dispute with who, who decided to punch who because they insulted their mother (that was enough for a chuckle).  
  
She's still in the midst of flipping through them, enjoying the warmth of the fire so close against her skin, when there's a knock on the door.  
  
"Come in," Lexa calls, without moving. She hadn't relocked the door after letting Elena in earlier.  
  
Sure enough, the woman herself enters with a bow. "Apologies, _Heda,_ " she says, "But our scouts have reported in. _Trishanakru_ will be here within the hour."  
  
There is the smallest of perceptible sighs from Lexa as she sets aside her work and stands. "Very well," she says. "Inform the kitchens that they will be here for the evening meal, and make certain their rooms are ready. Then return here."  
  
" _Sha, Heda_."

Clarke stands up with some effort. Her training that morning with Ronnie has finally manifested in soreness all through her limbs, and they protest at the sudden movement. At least her knee feels fine - or no worse than the rest of her.  
  
"Duty calls," Clarke gestures at the door. She can feel the serenity of that afternoon slipping away and her own defenses rising, unbidden and, she's surprised to discover, somewhat unwanted. Reality calling again. "I should go, I'm sure you have things to do."

"I always seem to," Lexa says wearily, and it's clear that she is loathe for this time to end as well. She leaves off straightening papers and straightens herself, turning to look at Clarke. "What will you do?"

"I'm not sure," Clarke hands Lexa the papers in her hands, unsure where the other woman would like them to go. "I've been keeping mostly to myself, but now that I'm supposed to make a dramatic entrance in a few days, I guess it makes the most sense to continue to stay out of sight - even if I am, despite myself, getting used to having people around."

The corner of Lexa's lips quirk upwards as she accepts the papers. "You sound almost resentful of that."

"I think it's more that the feeling hasn't replaced a desire to be alone." Clarke looks longingly back at her spot near the fire. "It's like half of me is back to who I was before, and the other half remains in isolation on a mountaintop, unwilling to come down." She walks over to grab her coat, which has been forgotten and slung over a chair for hours, and turns back to Lexa. "Today felt like a close melding of those two feelings, though. Thank you for letting me stay."

"Of course," Lexa inclines her head. "I cannot promise that I will always have this time in the coming days, but..." The formality she approaches just about everything with falters for a moment. "If I do, you are welcome to return here."

Clarke smiles, and for once it doesn't have any other feelings attached to it - just pleasure. "I'd like that. If you find you'd like my company, you can always ask Elena to find me. Or however it is you track people down in this city." The book of poems still sits on the table in front of them, where Clarke had left it. "Could I borrow that?"

There is immediate hesitation in Lexa's eyes, but Clarke gets the sense that it's habitual rather than specific to her. "You can, yes," she says, rather more quickly than would be necessary otherwise. "As long as you take care of it."

"I will protect it with my life," Clarke says, only half joking.

Another honest smile appears on Lexa's face. "I would appreciate it. Let me know how you find it - we have more like it, if you enjoy it. Though not all from him."

"Wonders never cease," Clarke teases. "I'm sure I'll be back for more, then."  
  
She takes the book and wraps it carefully in her coat, careful not to bend the parchment still stuffed in the pocket. "What is the protocol for the clans’ arrival, out of curiosity? What do the Commander's duties entail tonight?"

Lexa rolls her eyes in response. Wonders really will never cease. "In most cases, very little. A greeting is in order, such that they are officially under the protection of my hospitality. In the case of later arrivals, like this one, a dinner is served, to which the other clan leaders are invited." As she speaks, she moves to the dividers that separate the bedroom from the rest of the space and ducks through the curtain. Her voice continues from the other side, and she reappears a moment later with her coat in her hands, which she swings over her shoulders and buckles into place. "But Tumnas, the leader of the Glowing Forest People, enjoys the sound of his own voice. His people have done exceptionally well with trade, thanks to the Coalition, and he will be sure to nitpick the details of recent adjustments to agreements for as long as courtesy will allow him. And likely then some."

"Sounds like you're in for a politics-filled dinner." Clarke watches as Lexa dons her uniform, thinking that every snap and buckle conceals a little more of the Lexa she'd spent the afternoon with. "Perhaps you should enjoy these more mundane evenings, before _Wanheda_ makes an entrance. I have a feeling I'll be stealing the spotlight from you."

"I would be glad for the break," Lexa teases, and uses both hands to lift her hair and its net of braids out from the coat collar. She sobers for a moment then, and adds, "You will draw a considerable amount of attention, it is true. But I will not leave you to deal with them alone."

"I'll hold you to that." Clarke hopes the mixture of nerves and relief she feels doesn't show too clearly on her face. "Good thing I have a few days to prepare myself. And enjoy my anonymity while it lasts."  
  
She makes her way toward the door, intending to give Lexa her privacy to prepare for the evening.

"Clarke."  
  
She stops at the door, and turns to find Lexa still looking at her.  
  
"You should watch their arrival, if you can," she says. "It should be quite a scene."

"I'll think about it." Clarke thinks of the scene she'd made just a few hours earlier in the city. It feels like a world away, but she knows better than to forget it. She looks into Lexa's eyes, already missing the openness she sees there even before the Commander has fully shut herself off. "Good luck tonight. I'll look out for your hello tomorrow morning."

Another small smile, and a nod. "Thank you. I look forward to it."

She leaves before Elena returns, and escapes down the hallway without interruption. The guards that had attempted to detain her just hours ago now stand motionless, as though they don't even see her pass.  
  
The effect of the wine has left her by now, and though the meat pies that were sent up earlier have kept her full, Clarke heads downwards instead of up. The kitchen is aflurry, more so than she's seen before, and there are new faces that she doesn't recognize. Nevertheless, none pay her any mind as she weaves her way through the workers moving there and here - until Tera catches sight of her.  
  
"You!" She calls, and waves Clarke over. "Come here. Cut these roots up - small, like in squares."

Clarke dutifully takes the potatoes and small knife from Tera's hands. There isn't a cutting board, they just prepare the food all along one of the huge wooden tables, but it's easy enough to keep them all in a neat space in front of her.  
  
After so much time silently ruminating, the bustle and soundscape of the kitchen is pleasantly energizing. The noises aren't specific, with one painstakingly louder than the next - it's all just a bustle of people and activity, of half words yelled across rooms and all manner of plates and tables and silverware clinking together. The perfect place to keep busy without anyone paying her any mind.  
  
Tera barks an order every thirty seconds or so at someone running by and when she isn't speaking she's working - grabbing this and that from cupboards and pots and tossing everything into a huge mixing bowl in front of her that she kneads and mixes with her hands.  
  
"What are you making?" Clarke manages to ask in between the older woman yelling something about a...turkey? And leaning perilously far over a row of knives to grab some type of herb.

"You had a sample of it earlier," she says, and gives Clarke a surprisingly pointed look. The older woman has never worn that expression before, not in Clarke's presence. "Pies, but bigger. Meal size, not snack size."

"I..." Clarke flounders. "How do you know I had some of it earlier?"

"Elena mentioned it when she picked them up." Tera cracks a smile then. "Did _Heda_ like them?"

"She ate one in less than thirty seconds, so I can only assume so." Clarke's lips quirk at the memory of Lexa wolfing down a piece of pie. "As did I. I've never had a pie that isn't sweet before."

Tera chuckles, and turns back to her work. "She has eaten them since she was small - like a wolf pup in winter. I'm glad there's something of her still in there." She begins to mix the contents of the bowl. "They can be good for fast meals. No need for knife and fork, and have everything you need for a day."

The idea of Lexa as a child stealing pies from Tera's kitchen makes Clarke smile. "You knew her, before she became _Heda?"_

"Psh. I knew her when she barely knew the word," Tera answers. "I have seen three _Hedas_ in my time, served food to every one of them. I have been in this kitchen since I was a pup myself, and few have had feet as light - or stomach as big - as that one did."

"Has, I think you mean." Clarke considers Tera's words. Three _Hedas_...she examines the older woman's face and feels confident that she can't be too much older than her own mother. "Today is the first time I've seen her eat, but I've seen her move. Sometimes I wonder if she steps more loudly on purpose, so as not to startle me...or anyone," she quickly adds, suddenly self conscious for reasons she does not have the energy to investigate.

There certainly is reason for it, though, as Tera gives her a sly look. "You, indeed. Are you finished with those yet?"

Clarke rolls her eyes at herself and scoots the now cubed potatoes over toward Tera.  
  
“You say that like you know something, but there isn’t much to know. Lexa and I — I mean, _Heda_ and I, we’re friends.” She says it with as much conviction as she can muster, but she feels the lie in it - and sadness settles in the pit of her stomach.

"Mm. You say as much," Tera says, and dumps the potatoes into a pot, "but she does not have many of those."  
  
The comment makes Clarke's brow furrow, but before she can respond there's a gasp from somewhere behind her. "Look!"  
  
The back wall of the kitchen is paneled with windows that face the main city gates, and are in line with the tower's entrance. Now, a small group of workers have stopped to gather - and as they do, more join - to look out and down on the city below.  
  
"Ach," Tera tuts, " _Trishanakru_."

Clarke can't help her feet from carrying her over to the window. A few younger kitchen workers gather just in front of her, but she can easily see over their heads.  
  
"You're not a fan of theirs?" Clarke turns to ask the older woman. " _Trishanakru?"_

"They're fine," Tera answers, waving a hand, "But they are too much of a show."  
  
And a show it is indeed. The city below is awash in oranges and yellows, the color of torches and firelight spilling from homes and lanterns held by travelers. But in the distance, at the city walls, a distinctly blue light begins to filter through. As they watch, more and more of it floods the street, pinpricks becoming a veritable river. There is something ethereal about it, and it draws whispers of awe from those around her. Those turn into renewed gasps, as that light draws closer, banner-flying figures discernible amidst them, and the light itself begins to rise like a cloud into the sky.

Clarke frowns at the blue light, instantly suspicious. What is it? Technology she's never seen, or something else...  
  
She's already halfway across the kitchen when she remembers where she is. "I'll come back to help," she says to Tera over her shoulder.

"I. Wha--?"  
  
Clarke is gone before Tera can say more, rounding the corner and swinging her coat back over her shoulders as she climbs the stairs. She manages to hop on the lift just as it begins to descend, and feels a momentary relief to know that she is not the only one going down. Anonymity may not have been the first concern on her mind, but in a group of other bodies she may yet go unnoticed.  
  
When the lift lurches to a stop, it empties into a foyer that is already full. A small crowd has gathered at its edges, the dull rumble of their conversation accompanied by the joyous sound of drums and horns growing closer. Beyond the doors, a larger crowd is piecing itself together as the visitors approach, but Clarke quickly assesses that there is no way to join them from here without being seen. Lexa's attaché is already here, the woman herself silhouetted in the center doorway by the firelight spilling in from the courtyard beyond. She is flanked by four figures - Clarke recognizes Elena and Indra, and the leader of _Flokru_ , leaving her to guess the fourth one, a squat, muscular man, is the leader of the Rock Line Clan - and each door is flanked by guards. Behind them, a line of dignitaries stand just inside.

Clarke can't see much from where she is, with so many people around her. She could get fairly close to the door, if she wanted to, but the risk of being seen and recognized would be high - especially so close to Lexa. The room is large and relatively full, but it looks like most people who would be coming down from the tower are already here. She scans the room for a better vantage point. There has to be something higher...  
  
Along the side of the room, about twenty feet back from Lexa and the other clan leaders, a pile of crates and boxes have been stacked up. They aren't too high, just a few feet, but high enough that those who are sitting on them could easily see into the crowd outside. She recognizes the dark clothes of the kids who have claimed them instantly: Nightbloods. Some of the younger ones bicker and push each other, vying for the best and highest seat, but most of them have situated themselves either next to or on the crates, their attention focused outside.  
  
A hand waves from the back end of their group and it takes Clarke a moment to recognize Ronnie - and that he's waving at her. She has to push her way through the crowd, but she manages to make her way over to him.  
  
"Hey," Clarke greets him and laughs at the huge grin already on his face. "It looks like you found a good spot!"

"King of the castle!" He proclaims, and sticks both fists in the air as he bounces his heels off the box he's sitting on. It's a bit of a misnomer - he sits on the lowest box, putting his head just above the crowd. A young girl in pigtails and a bruise on her cheek sits on the top box, Kita standing on the second lowest one next to her. "Did you come down to watch the festivities?"

"I did, yeah. I saw the light from upstairs, so I came down to investigate." She glances back toward the door. She can see better from here, but it's still not ideal. That light grows slowly brighter and brighter, creating a fog of iridescent blue around Lexa's form. "It's pretty hard to see though, maybe I should've stayed upstairs and watched from a window."

"But then you won't get the _feel_ of it," Ronnie says confidently, and gets to his feet. He sticks a hand down to Clarke, having made enough room for two people to stand on his chosen box. "Want a better spot?"

Clarke lets him help her up. This _is_ a better spot - she can see over nearly everyone. The left-most side of the crowd outside is still obscured, but she can see directly in front of the door and to the right. So when the crowd finally parts to make way for the procession behind them, Clarke can see it all clearly.  
  
"What is that blue light?" Clarke wonders aloud. As the crowd parts it gets suddenly much brighter, so much so that Clarke puts a hand up to shield her eyes. Through her fingers she can see Lexa and her dignitaries, now completely bathed in blue and casting long shadows behind them.

"They're from the Glowing Forest," Ronnie answers, somewhat unhelpfully. He's watching with wide eyes, and an equally wide smile. "They say plants and animals glow there, because of the great fires."  
  
The music the procession is playing comes to a crescendo and ends, leaving the crowd - much bigger than the one Clarke experienced for _Flokru's_ arrival - whooping and applauding in response. When that settles into relative quiet, Lexa, accompanied by the Commander's and Coalition's banners, steps forward.  
  
" _Monin, Trishanakru_ ," she says, and the words are familiar from the previous greeting Clarke witnessed. "Welcome. _Kongeda_ is honored that you have joined us for the First Fall."  
  
" _Heda Leksa!"_ It is a man's voice that answers, and Clarke watches as a figure, taller and younger than she expected, swings down from a horse. He crosses to where the Commander stands, and kneels before her as he loudly proclaims. "Your grace and strength are stunning, as always. Truly, it is our honor, our _privilege_ , to be held in such esteem!"  
  
That response seems to trigger something, just as it had during _Flokru's_ arrival, and the music starts up again. All at once, something is released, and the blue light spills everywhere - balls of it float into the sky, over the crowd, into the foyer. It is only as one draws closer, floating fairy-like towards her, that she recognizes what it is.

"Butterflies," Clarke says. One alights on Ronnie's shoulder and he jumps, nearly toppling the box they're standing on and causing the butterfly to flutter away. Clarke bursts with genuine laughter and grabs Ronnie's arm to steady him. "They're just butterflies!"

"They're _glowing!"_ He responds, his hand clapping over her wrist as he regains his balance. "Could be carnivorous too, for all we know!"

Clarke is still chuckling when another one lands on the sleeve of her jacket. "You think _Trishanakru_ would bring carnivorous butterflies to greet _Heda?"_ She examines the little creature. It looks just like any other butterfly - aside from the pulsing, blue glow emanating from its wings. "That would be quite the introduction."

"...fair point."  
  
The crowd around them is parting now, many still watching the butterflies with awe and delight - and a touch of fear in places, not unlike Ronnie - despite the procession now trying to make its way through. The line of diplomats go first, but stop outside the lift in deference to Lexa and the new arrivals.  
  
They have to pass near the pile of boxes on their way, and Clarke can already see the _Trishanakru_ leader is talking Lexa's ear off. For a moment she catches the Commander's eye, just for a second, and can read the look she gives her as plain as if she had spoken it. _Gods, save me._

Clarke does her best to give Lexa a reassuring smile, but it quickly turns into a frown at the _Trishanakru_ leader's back. All of the other leaders give Lexa her space, showing her respect by setting her apart. But this man is as close to her as Clarke was earlier, and she recognizes the tension in Lexa's shoulders even at this distance.  
  
"Tumnas," Clarke muses as the lift trundles upward. "An odd name." She turns to Ronnie, who is totally consumed by the butterfly still clinging to her arm. "Are you all joining them for dinner?"

"Oh, no - we have training still," he says. He extends a careful finger towards the butterfly, watches its wings open and close slowly. "We'll be at the big dinner, but these nights are for the politicians."

"Seems just as well." Clarke gently coaxes the butterfly onto her finger. "Training sounds much better than talking about politics." She places the butterfly on the back of Ronnie's outstretched hand. He's far more relaxed this time and grins that ridiculously infectious grin at the insect. "Thanks for letting me share your spot, Ronnie. I would've been supremely jealous if I'd missed this."

"Oh, uh, yeah." He looks up at her, a little as though he'd forgotten about her in that split second of marveling at the butterfly. "Still want to meet tomorrow morning?"

"Yeah, I'll be there." She hops down and waves goodbye. "See you then."  
  
Ronnie may as well not have heard her, for all he pays attention to her goodbye. Clarke chuckles and makes her way back toward the lift. She'll have to wait for it now, with so many people hoping to get on it. It's not the waiting that bothers her, but the crush of bodies she's found herself in. She does her best to block out the crowd as she makes her way through the mass of people and onto the packed lift.

She escapes from the press when the lift at last reaches its destination, and she makes her way back to the kitchen. Things have only gotten more hectic as the final dinner preparations are made, and Tera wastes no time enlisting Clarke's hands again. A dozen more things chopped and some dough kneaded and rolled out later, and she is released from service with a dinner of her own.  
  
Her body is surprisingly, pleasingly exhausted after the events of the day. She cycles through them as she sits before the low fire, already lit and crackling when she returns, munching thoughtfully on her meal. She had been ready to kill Lexa just hours ago, and now...  
  
She spends some time stretching out her aching limbs in front of the fire, paying special attention to her healing knee. Then, with book in hand, she props herself up against her chair, pulls some of the furs over her legs, and begins to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do buzzers work without electricity? ~Magic.~


	5. A Friend from Floukru

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So. We typically upload our chapters into Ao3 ahead of time and save them as drafts. This works perfectly for editing and formatting purposes. It works less perfectly when you forget to change the "published on" date and accidentally post your chapter with a pub date back in...April. Oops. Sorry to all who might have missed us yesterday because of it; we're back on track now.

Clarke jolts awake sometime later, surprised that she'd fallen asleep and suddenly very nervous about the state of her book.

She instinctively grabs for it and examines the pages with her hands, at first unable to see in the dark. It feels fine, and she’s well away from the fire and any danger it might present.  
  
The fire, if it could be called that anymore, is really a pile of slow burning coals. Now that her eyes have had time to adjust to the low light, she can see the sky tentatively lightening. The sun must have just barely begun to rise.  
  
Clarke groans when she shifts her weight, aches in her back and legs from the position she’d slept in and yesterday’s training straining against the movement. She really should just sleep in the bed - but even as the thought hits, a wave of resolute stubbornness washes over her. Yesterday may have changed some things between her and Lexa, but clearly it hasn’t changed everything.  
  
There can’t be many people awake at this hour, even here in the tower, but Clarke goes to the bathroom to wash up anyway. She knows herself well enough to realize that she’ll never get back to sleep, not now. The clothes she’d worn the day before yesterday are folded neatly near the bed, along with a...robe? Dress? Whatever it is, it’s not suitable for training with Ronnie. She grabs the deep blue shirt and dark pants and is surprised to find that they’re as clean as the first day she wore them.  
  
Elena really is something.  
  
Frost on the windows indicates the weather, but Clarke opts for the lighter jacket anyway. There’s still a pocket for the book and her parchment and charcoal, and her session with Ronnie should do well enough to keep her warm.  
  
She glances at the book tucked in her pocket. She’d memorized another of the poems last night, before falling asleep - or at least most of it. And she’d promised to keep the book safe...she rolls her eyes at herself but takes the book out and places it carefully on the table next to the two chairs. Her memory will suffice for now.  
  
The two guards at the end of the hall don’t give her so much as a glance, but she swears she sees an eyebrow rise behind one of those helmets. It's early, even for her - even for Lexa, she imagines. But they don’t stop her as she makes her way down the stairs, heading for the lift and intending to watch the effect of a sunrise over the city.

The air is cold outside, colder than it has been since she arrived; she draws the fabric she's been using as a scarf over her nose to protect it from the bite, and pushes her hands deep inside the coat pockets. The sky has begun to lighten, and even in the time it took her to leave the room and get downstairs, the deep purple on the horizon has lightened into a radiant, dark pink.  
  
The wall that lines the green space at the foot of the tower isn't patrolled - at least, she has never patrols on it - but it does have a parapet. Though clearly not a first line of defense, it's design clearly such a purpose in mind, which means...yes. After some investigation, she finds a set of stairs hidden behind a low gate. She climbs over, a little clumsily courtesy of limbs stiffened by sore muscles and the cold, and ascends.  
  
If anyone sees her, no one tries to stop her.  
  
When she emerges on the top of the wall, she finds herself just a few yards short of - and several yards above - the training pitch, on a path made of stone and iron barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. She's of a height with the buildings on the other side, however, and can see clear across their rooftops to the city walls in the distance, and the mountains beyond those. Further on, the sun's rays begin to creep into the sky.

She hasn't actually seen a sunrise...well, ever. Not like this. From the Ark, the sun rising was never much of an event. Since she's come to Earth, Clarke has been up with the sun more often than not, but even when she was able to see it she'd never paid much attention. This is the first time she's woken up and truly had nothing to do. No one demanding her attention, no crisis to solve, nothing chasing her or pulling her in eighteen directions at once. She has nowhere to be and nothing to occupy her thoughts - nothing except for the image in front of her.  
  
The sun's rays emerge slowly above the line of the forest to the east, illuminating the tops of the houses on the outskirts of the city in a hazy glow. The gradient of light is striking: night sky still hangs above her and changes, somehow both imperceptibly and drastically at the same time, from midnight black to deep blue, to purple, to turquoise, and finally to a lazy, brightening orange. The lack of electric light brings each color into stark focus; she can even still see stars, if she cranes her neck up.  
  
Clarke's heart rate and breathing slow, and she wonders if this is how relaxed she is when she's asleep. When she _really_ sleeps, that is - which is admittedly rare these days, nightmares being what they are. She stays on the parapet for what feels like a long time, until the sun is fully above the tree line and it is unmistakably morning. She hasn't seen Ronnie - she would easily see him coming from here - but after a while standing still is simply untenable in the cold. She's about to give up and head back down the stairs when she hears footsteps from below her.

She shrinks back against the side of the wall, uncertain what to expect...but as the footsteps draw closer, they bring only Lexa with them.  
  
The Commander is dressed in heavier training clothes this morning, and Clarke can see her breath rising in puffs before her. She carries her sword across her shoulders, arms stretched back and wrists draped over the sheathed blade to keep it balanced on her back. She doesn't see Clarke as she passes beneath her - doesn't even look up.  
  
As she approaches the training yard, she swings her sword down off her shoulders and climbs over the fence. She leans the sheathed blade against a post near the collected training items and hefts what looks like a weighted sack over each shoulder. A bend to one side, then to the other to loosen up the hips, and then Lexa is climbing back over the fence, now weighed down by the bags, and takes off at a trot around the far side of the tower.

Clarke watches her until she's out of view, feeling more and more amused. It would be Lexa that's up at this hour - and of course she's training. Does she do anything other than train? Her smile turns down ever so slightly at the realization that no, that probably is the majority of her free time. Not only does that make sense, for her to be as physically capable as possible, but it's also likely the only time she has to herself.  
  
She decides not to make her presence known, at least not yet. Clarke had come here for her own version of solitary relaxation. If running around a huge building with two weighted sacks is Lexa's version of that same thing, then Clarke doesn't want to interrupt. The idea of that sounds like the exact opposite of any positive sensation to Clarke, but is so very _Lexa_. The thought makes her chuckle quietly to herself even as the woman in question re-emerges on the opposite side of the tower.

She's there and gone again as she starts a second lap, and then a third. When Lexa appears the third time, she diverts back to the training area; without pausing or slowing her pace she heads straight for the fence. With a grunt she steps on the fence's lower rung and pushes herself up and over as though it were a stair. Landing lightly, she dodges purposefully between the training dummies that are lined up, her feet swift as she turns this way and that, spins, graceful and easy until--  
  
Something catches on one of the dummies, and her weight is thrown off. She flings an arm out, the dummy wobbles, balances again...but Lexa doesn't. She hits the ground with an _oof_ , and for a moment there's silence. Then, "Ugh."

Clarke can't help it - she laughs out loud at the sight. She quickly clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound, but it's obviously too late. Lexa bolts upright and looks around for the source of the sound, her green eyes eventually finding Clarke on the parapet.

 _"Clarke?"_  
  
The tension in her shoulders releases, and Lexa gets to her feet. Going from alert to embarrassed in no time at all, the Commander begins to brush herself off as she calls up, "What are you _doing_ up there?"

Having blown her cover, Clarke holds a finger up, indicating she'll be down in a minute. She finds the stairs again and hops the small gate, with far more ease this time, and makes her way over to the training yard. The sun warms her face and she pulls the cloth covering her nose and mouth down. The wind is still cold, but no longer unpleasant - at least for now.  
  
"Looks like you need a little more practice." Clarke gestures to the dummy next to Lexa as she walks up to the fence.

Lexa's forehead shines with sweat, her hair pressed back with it at the edges, but the redness in her face doesn't seem like it comes from exertion. She has both sacks over her shoulders again, and though she doesn't verbally huff, Clarke can all but hear the sound as she turns on her heel and stalks towards the equipment pile.  
  
"It was a mistake," she says, though she doesn't sound actually annoyed, "I was still waking up."

"I'm teasing." Clarke watches Lexa drop the sacks into a pile, and then stretch her arms and shoulders before turning back to her. "And I'm sorry I interrupted. I was already up there when you came down and I didn't want to disturb you." She spreads her hands, gesturing a little helplessly at where she stands. "Though, obviously I've done a poor job."

"I appreciate the effort," Lexa says wryly, but there's a small smirk on her lips. She comes back to where Clarke stands against the fence, and folds her arms over her chest. "You didn't tell me what you were doing up there."

"I was awake," Clarke shrugs, "and I liked the idea of seeing the sun rise. Up there seemed like the best place."

"And you accuse me of being a romantic," Lexa mutters, and Clarke gets the sense that she isn't wholly intended to hear it. But then, it seems unlikely Lexa would so lose track of herself as to say something she didn't mean to say.

"There isn't much else for me to do before the sun rises, turns out. At least, not while I'm here."

Lexa's expression changes, acknowledging _good point_ without actually saying it. "As the case may be, you made a good choice."

"It was a good spot," Clarke leans forward and props her elbows on the fence. "Cold, but worth it."

"There are few good things in this world that come without some sort of cost," the Commander answers, and takes a step back. She drops her arms, and pulls on the heels of the fingerless gloves she wears. "Would you like something to warm you up?"

“Name one thing that doesn’t, and I’ll be impressed.” Clarke eyes the gloves and at the same time stuffs her hands further into her pockets. “Your hands will be cold without those, and I know what you do with them at this hour.” It sounds stupid - and absurdly more suggestive than she intends - the instant it leaves her mouth.

“You’ll...need them,” Clarke lamely attempts to explain.

There's a glint of amusement in Lexa's eye, but she doesn't otherwise comment on the slip. "I was not talking about the gloves," she says, and strides to the equipment pile. She retrieves two staves, and as she returns to Clarke, she waves her towards her side of the fence. "Come on."

Clarke’s eyes widen at Lexa’s meaning, but even as her mind hesitates, her body moves forward and hops over the fence. _Always deciding on the move_ , she thinks, half annoyed at herself. “I doubt I’ll be much of a match for you.”

"You don't have to be." Lexa hands her a staff, and leads her into an open patch of dry grass. She twirls her staff in front of her, ostensibly getting the weight of it (but definitely showing off, Clarke thinks), before she sinks into a defensive stance. "Just try to hit me."

Clarke frowns, but places her feet the way Ronnie showed her and bends her knees into a half-crouch. “That sounds like a challenge, _Heda_.”

"Good," Lexa smirks. "Because it is one."

The first few strikes are easily glanced aside by Lexa’s staff, but the more Clarke moves the more her lesson with Ronnie comes back to her. At first it just feels like an exercise - like walking through the motions, but as the minutes go on, Lexa begins to move faster. She never makes a move to hit Clarke, but her parries come quickly and snap back to a neutral position with ever more efficiency. Like she’s pushing Clarke to match her speed.  
  
If Clarke were thinking about it, she would probably find the idea of Lexa provoking her irritating. At the _very_ least. But she isn’t thinking, not really - she’s reacting, moving only as quickly as the woman in front of her. Which makes the jab Lexa throws to her side just as surprising as it is agitating.

Lexa's eyebrows go up in response to the annoyance on her face. "I said, _try to hit me_ ," she says. "You're pulling your punches."

"You clearly think too highly of my abilities," Clarke replies, but even as she does she increases her speed.  
  
The truth is that Clarke could never hope to outmatch Lexa in a fight. She doesn't feel embarrassed or upset about that - it's just a fact. What she finds more and more exasperating, as she pushes herself harder and harder to break Lexa's defenses, is that she _wants_ to hit her. Lexa never looks anything other than focused, but Clarke knows her - she can see the playful light in her eyes, the way her lips curve up ever so slightly when Clarke doesn't quite block an attack. And it makes Clarke want to wipe that smug look off her face.  
  
It takes several more minutes, but eventually Clarke is able to match Lexa's speed and movements. Enough that she manages not to get hit, but still isn't able to break past Lexa's parries.  
  
And she won't - she isn't fast enough.  
  
Clarke does her best to subtly scan their surroundings and her eyes fall on a pile of chopped logs about thirty paces behind Lexa...  
  
"You know, now it seems like _you're_ pulling your punches." Clarke pushes harder, forcing Lexa to step back with the force and speed of her blows. She won't be able to keep it up for long, but maybe for just long enough.

"Does it?" A swipe at her ankles has Lexa hopping backwards, as of yet oblivious to Clarke's plan. "I can't imagine what you mean."

"It just seems like you're going easy on me, is all." Clarke forces herself forward, ignoring the small snap of Lexa's staff on her leg as she just barely deflects the blow. Her breath is labored, but purpose gives her energy and her voice barely wavers. "Or maybe my expectations are too high."

A particularly vicious attempt at a return blow has Lexa spinning away, unable to catch the whole of the momentum on her staff and winning Clarke several steps more. Lexa, breathing heavily herself, is unperturbed by the loss of ground. She pushes sweat-damp hair back from her forehead and resets her defenses, just in time to catch Clarke's next attack. "Well, that is not particularly charitable, Clarke," she lilts, "I do not want to actually _hurt_ you."

"Of course not." Lexa's about ten paces from the pile now and Clarke can now confirm what she hoped would be the case - that several are scattered about haphazardly on the ground, separate and closer than the larger piles. "I've just only had the one lesson, so you're either holding back," she pushes her muscles, straining to maintain the speed she's set. Her lungs pinch in her chest with every breath. She won't be able to keep it up much longer. "Or Ronnie is the best teacher in history."

"He is a good teacher," Lexa admits. She steps to the side this time, and Clarke sees her plan unraveling before her eyes. She readjusts, letting one of Lexa's taps push her further to the side, driving the Commander back at an angle now. Back on track. "But a teacher is only as good as her student. And you, Clarke, are--"  
  
It's a jab towards Lexa's middle that cuts her off, but her slide backwards to avoid it is what seals the deal. She doesn't notice the block of wood behind her, and when she moves to catch a downward strike from Clarke, her foot catches on it - and the wood catches in the dirt. Her momentum carries her over it and, in a moment, the Commander of the Twelve Clans is on the ground for the second time that morning.  
  
She's still able to catch Clarke's blow, locking them in a stand still. Holding herself up with one arm, her weight on the same hip, Lexa's other leg is bent to give her support. She holds the staff in one hand like a sword, locked up and crossways against Clarke's weapon, keeping the space between the two women steady. But with the look Lexa gives her then, Clarke feels a lurch in her stomach that makes them feel much closer. She's panting and sweating on the ground, but Lexa's eyes glint with admiration, and something...much more intense than that. Something that, for a moment, makes Clarke think she'd like to devour her whole.  
  
"...impressive."

Clarke's breaths are heavy and her muscles ache, but the adrenaline she'd felt doesn't go away. She can't quite tear her eyes from Lexa, and her heart beats impossibly faster as the seconds wear on. Part of her doesn't want to move - as if adjusting any part of her body would destroy the feeling keeping her there. But the rest of her protests against the tension growing in her limbs and eventually she forces her arms, and the staff with them, back.  
  
"I do my best." Clarke extends her hand to Lexa. "Especially when I am so clearly outmatched by my opponent."

Lexa takes her hand and, when Clarke pulls her to her feet, they are closer yet. The smell of sweat and leather and the forest floor hits her, and Lexa's eyes are _so_ green. Some of the feeling did leave with the movement, it's true, but something just slightly less intense lingers. "Perhaps outskilled," Lexa amends. Her breathing hasn't calmed either, but it feels less like being out of breath than it does breathless. "But never outmatched."

Words feel stuck in Clarke's throat, and even if they did come, she isn't sure what they would be. Her eyes dart over Lexa, taking in the muscles around her collarbone as they continually tense and relax - her mouth, parted slightly, still panting - and her dark, green eyes, fixed on Clarke's own with a kind of intensity she's never seen from the Commander.  
  
Footsteps from the path near the tower snap Clarke almost painfully back to her surroundings. She blinks a few times before she registers Ronnie in the distance, trotting over to them.

"Morning, Clarke!" He calls, waving a hand over his head in her direction. "Are you trying to steal my student, _Heda?"_  
  
The look fades from Lexa's eyes, but it's replaced with amusement. She meets Clarke's gaze, giving her a smile, before she turns to answer Ronnie. "I was checking the quality of your handiwork, _Natblida_." She takes her staff and tosses it to him when he's close enough, and he catches it easily.  
  
"And?"  
  
"You've been too soft on her."  
  
" _Heda!_ It's only been one day!"

"What makes you think he's been too soft on me?" Clarke shrugs out of her jacket, finally - the cold breeze through her thin shirt is a relief - and drapes it over the fence. "He taught me enough to knock you over." She winks at Ronnie. "I think that speaks well of his teaching abilities."

Ronnie is drawn up short. He looks between Clarke and Lexa, positively baffled by that statement. With a look at Clarke, Lexa brushes invisible dirt off the back of her shirt.  
  
"Do not give him credit for your strategy. He didn't teach you to use the battlefield to your advantage - or your enemy's weaknesses against her." That feels like a more important statement than she makes it to be, and Clarke sees that sentiment echoed in Ronnie's face. _Her weaknesses?_ But Lexa turns and heads towards where she left her sword. "She's tougher than she looks. Help her figure that out."  
  
There's silence between them as both Ronnie and Clarke watch her walk away. Then the boy looks up at her. "...What was that about?"

"I'm..." Clarke watches Lexa's retreating form. She doesn't even look winded, whereas Clarke's entire body is already exhausted. "I'm not entirely sure. Though I think it was a compliment - or as close to one as she gets."  
  
Clarke leans on her staff and offers Ronnie an honest smile. She hadn't realized how excited she was to see him until now. "Apparently you've been tasked with showing me how tough I am, which sounds intimidating."

"Yeah..." Ronnie scratches the back of his head, and watches Lexa as well. It's when she unsheathes her sword that he switches his attention back to Clarke. "I think I'm scared."

Clarke laughs. "Of me or of Lexa?"

"Both!" He chuckles a little, but he does actually seem a little intimated. "She likes you, I think. In a way she doesn't like most people who aren't us. So...I've gotta do a good job."

Clarke cocks her head at him. He's slightly shorter than her, and she has to look down to meet his grey eyes. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs, and swings his staff up against one shoulder. "Just that I've never taught anyone before. I've helped other Nightbloods occasionally, but I've never taught anyone." he grins. "Wouldn't want to disappoint."

"Well you are a far more accomplished fighter than I." Clarke adjusts her body back into the position Ronnie showed her the day before. His enthusiasm is infectious as ever, and her muscles feel warm with exertion and renewed energy. "And you're generous to take the time to teach me."

Ronnie gives a flourish of his staff - not unlike the one Lexa had made, she thinks - and settles into his stance as well. "Oh I wouldn't say too generous," he teases, and shrugs. "Apparently I'm getting on _Heda's_ good side."  
  
The training is a little harder than it was the day before, though whether as part of its normal course or at the behest of Lexa is unclear. With warm muscles, however, and Ronnie egging her on, it goes by with surprising ease.  
  
At the same time, Lexa is somewhere behind them, and during a break they are able to watch her working through her own training. Today, drastically different from the morning before, she trains quietly alone. Instead of fighting Indra, she wields her sword through a series of forms. The movements are careful, more about control and strength than speed and agility; her brow is furrowed, her muscles tensed and strong.

Clarke realizes with some surprise that both she and Ronnie are watching Lexa move through her exercises. He looks on at the Commander with an awed, but calculating gaze. His eyes dart as quickly as Lexa's sword, mapping her movements.  
  
"Do you think I'll ever be that impressive with a sword?" Clarke asks, her tone clearly teasing.

He laughs, breaking off his examination to look at Clarke and take a drink from a water skin. "Probably not," he says, and passes the skin to her. "She's been fighting since she was younger than me, and training for even longer. So you're a little late to the game."

"You're probably right," Clarke agrees. She hasn't had anything to drink since she left her room that morning. Water dribbles down her chin as she takes a long gulp before handing it back to Ronnie. "I bet you could be, though. The way you move is so much like her, and I'd wager you're just as fast."

He snorts and drinks again. "Maybe one day," he says. The words momentarily throw his status as a Nightblood in stark relief; depending on how long Lexa lives, and on whether or not he can become Commander, there may not be so much of a 'one day' for Ronnie. Not that his mind appears to have gone there. "I'll take that as a compliment though - I would be honored to be half as good a swordsman as her.  
  
"You know, it never occurred to me," he follows up with quickly. "What kind of weapon do you think you'd want to use?"

Clarke opens her mouth and closes it again with a frown. She likes Ronnie, a lot, and she wants to trust him. But if she wants to enact this plan of Lexa's - and she still hasn't decided as much, but if she does - then she'll have to keep as low a profile as possible. Which definitely does not include admitting to being somewhat proficient with a gun.

"If I had to fight, I think something like this." She hoists the staff up, testing it's now familiar weight in her hands. "Something I could attack and defend myself with. But I'm not much of a warrior, the truth is I'd probably still lose against a skilled fighter. I'd probably do better with a ranged weapon -" she thinks of the feel of a gun, cold and hard, in her hand and her knuckles flex of their own accord "- like a bow and arrow, maybe."

"A bow won't do you much good if someone comes at you with a sword," he chuckles, and hands off the water skin one more time. He pushes off from the fence he's standing against and hefts his staff. "But alright. Good to know."

"Well, what exactly are my options?"

"Oh! Uh." He puts the staff back down again, leaning it against his shoulder as he ticks off options on his fingers. "Bo staff, obviously. Hand axe, battle axe, warhammer, mace. Sword, obviously. Daggers..."

Clarke holds up a hand and laughs. "Okay, okay. So there are a lot of options. I'm liking the bo staff so far, I think. And I actually... have some experience with a dagger." She winces at the truth of that, but Ronnie doesn't seem to notice. "Improving that skill might not be such a bad idea."

"Okay! That's something to work with," he grins. "Fighting that close range isn't exactly my specialty, I admit, but. I'll bet there's still something I can teach you."

"Well we're pretty much starting at ground zero," Clarke unconsciously touches the knife tucked against her lower back. "What is your specialty, Ronnie? You prefer a sword?"

He nods rapidly. "Yep! Always have. It helps that it's the weapon we're most trained in," he admits, and picks up his staff for the last time. He waves her back over to their patch of grass for some final exercises. "But I like it better than a lot of others. It's more versatile, and it's easier for me to use with a shield."

Clarke hadn't considered the concept of a shield. Defense and offense. A wise choice for someone like Ronnie - small, but fast. "Somehow I doubt I'll ever be carrying a shield. I'm getting the sense that I'm more of a react-in-the-moment type of fighter."

Ronnie shrugs. "That's the best kind of fighter to be."  
  
He doesn't have her work with a sword this time, in deference to her expressed preferences. So the forms they practice are more about footwork, how to position herself such that she can quickly react. She gets a few more bruises for her efforts, but it's otherwise satisfying work.  
  
When the other Nightbloods appear for training, Ronnie bounces off to join them and Lexa sheathes her sword. Clarke passes close by her as she leaves, prompting the Commander to speak up.  
  
"Clarke," she says, causing her to pause for a moment. She flashes a small smile. "Consider this my hello."  
  
With the sweat drying and the cold sinking in, there is little more that Clarke wants than a nice, hot bath. It's a luxury, to be sure, and one that she has no intention of getting used to...and when she realizes it will require her to press the dreaded button, she almost dispenses with the idea entirely. But she remembers the ache in her bones this morning, and the utter bliss of the bath those mornings ago, and does it anyway.  
  
Elena appears, gracious as ever, and assures her water will be brought up shortly. Feeling awkward about watching others prepare a bath for her, Clarke slips out to collect food from Tera; the bath is steaming with warmth by the time she returns.

Clarke had eaten on the way up, suddenly ravenous at the mere sight of food - so when she sees the bath, tendrils of steam rising from the surface, she wastes no time in pulling the half damp, half stiff shirt over her head and kicking off her pants. She hisses as the hot water hits the bruises and cuts on her body, but stubbornly folds herself into the tub as quickly as possible. Just seconds later, her skin adjusts to the temperature and her muscles relax.  
  
At first, Clarke doesn't think about anything. She takes several minutes to just lie in the tub, enjoying its warmth and the weightlessness the water provides. Just like last time, she can imagine falling asleep so easily - the thought of which makes her sit up a little more. Drowning in a tub would really be a disappointing death, after everything she's been through.  
  
Her mind wanders back to the events of the morning. The city, bathed in a rich yellow light, was a wonder to see - she can imagine why Lexa was insistent that Polis would change her opinion of Grounders.  
  
_Lexa_. Being with her that morning had felt...almost normal. Almost like there weren't a million reasons why Clarke should hate her, like they weren't _Heda_ and _Wanheda_. It felt, for an hour or so, like their time really was best served by just enjoying the morning. That, and managing to put Lexa on her ass. Clarke chuckles softly at the memory of the Commander slipping and the utter shock on her face as she fell.  
  
The chuckle turns to a small _hmmm_ when the memory brings her to Lexa, prone on the ground, looking up at her with those eyes, so full of...something. Something Clarke can't put a name to, or maybe doesn't want to. Either way, her brain refuses to supply her with anything very descriptive. Anything except, annoyingly, a desire to see that look on her face again.  
  
Clarke forces her thoughts away from Lexa - at least as away as she can manage, and lands on the Commander's plan for the First Fall celebration. The idea that Clarke should unveil _Wanheda_ , in front of all twelve clans. _As a show of strength_ , Lexa had said. Clarke's forehead knits together at the idea. It would be a dramatic entrance, that's for sure. And if she played it right, she could earn respect and power for her people. But she would also certainly put a target on their backs - and a bigger one than already exists, at that.  
  
She'll need a plan herself, if she's to go through with it. She can't be hostile, but must show strength...she can't be seeming to ally herself with anyone, and yet can't appear to be unreasonable or too unpredictable. No lack of conviction, and yet no anger. The others need to want to work with her, not fear her enough that they'll never come near Arkadia again.  
  
Clarke groans. It's an impossible task, the kind she'd foolishly hoped she'd never have to make again when she escaped into the mountains. And yet it does seem the only option available to her. She'll have to make herself known sooner or later - it's either that, or run away again. And as much as Clarke refuses to get used to the comforts of this tower and this room, the idea of living on a frigid mountaintop has a certain lack of appeal.  
  
Besides, if she were really being honest with herself, her self-imposed exile was just as much for her as for her people. She needed to be alone - still often needs to be alone. But she can't afford to be selfish any longer. Her people need her, and they need _more_ than her, and the most she can offer them is _Wanheda_.  
  
The water has turned cool by the time Clarke realizes she hasn't done any actual cleaning of herself. She quickly washes her hair and scrubs her body thoroughly. By the time she's done the water truly is cold and she quickly towels herself off and grabs a fur blanket from the bed to bundle herself in. The idea of going outside again right at that moment seems so dramatically unpleasant that she opts to relax in what has quickly become her favorite chair and read for a bit. With a fire smoldering in front of her feet (had Elena just lit it, without her asking?), fur enveloping her, a full stomach and poetry in her hands, Clarke couldn't bring herself to get dressed and go out if she wanted to. It's barely midday, and she'll have plenty of time to fill out more of her map in an hour or so.

When at last the moment has lost its magic, and her tired limbs feel antsy again, she extricates herself from the nest she's built and dresses again. She fills her pockets with her daily supplies, and heads down to the kitchen.  
  
Tera is too busy to hassle her much, and she escapes again quickly with a cloth folded over some lunch items stuffed in her other pocket. Down in the courtyard, the Nightbloods, finished with their training, are just coming around the corner of the building - but she can get across the empty space and through the gate before they get near. From there, the whole of the city awaits her.  
  
The afternoon goes much as the others have; she explores and draws, at times taxed by crowds, other times pulled in by curiosity. Unlike the previous day's, however, every inch of the city feels alive. People are putting up bunting, streamers across the streets and between houses, lanterns are decorated in colored glass, and it seems like every few hours another roar goes up as a new delegation appears. Clarke doesn't catch all of them, but judging by those that she does and the chatter she hears, at least three new delegations have arrived since that morning.  
  
In a quiet moment, when most of the crowds have followed a train of newcomers to the tower, Clarke finds a set of boxes stacked against the wall of an alley. She perches on the corner of it, and pulls out her map to examine her handiwork. After four days, she has nearly every part of the city drawn up.

Nearly. There is one bit of it that she doesn’t quite have, one corner she hasn’t fully mapped. But the rest is impressively clear, even to her eyes. She hadn’t realized that this exercise was about more than just getting her bearings - she feels more like herself. Sketching and mapping makes her feel both more in control and more at home in her own skin, which is more than she can say for everything else.  
  
Well. Nearly everything.  
  
Clarke hardens the boundary lines of the city, shading more surely than she had before and filling in blank spaces. She’s not sure what use this map might really have - it might prove useless, or invaluable. She doesn’t really care, she’s surprised to realize.  
  
Once she feels she’s seen all there is to see, the sun is already setting. Clarke knows logically that only means that it’s still late afternoon, not really evening, but even so the desire to go home hits her hard with the waning light.  
  
_Home_. That’s not really what this is. Not at all what Polis is, in fact. But what is home, anymore? Arkadia? As much as she’d like that to be true, it doesn’t feel the way she’d hoped. Are her people home? Her mother, Raven, Octavia, Bellamy...are they enough to feel like home? They hadn’t. It isn’t why she left, but it’s true all the same. Nothing felt like home anymore. And yet for some reason, the tower insistently calls her back.  
  
Must be that damnably comfortable room Lexa has set her up in.  
  
She’s nearly back to the tower by the time this complex thought process has met its unsatisfying end, and it’s just as well: yet another clan has entered, it seems, and is yet again blocking her way into the building.

It's _Ingranronakru_ \- the Plains Riders, if her study of the dossiers are of any use. A blue symbol, like a star drawn out to resemble the horns and face of a steer, snaps in the breeze on their standards. A woman dressed in skins is addressing Lexa as she approaches, and again there is a round of shouts and applause when she finishes - though this time, the crowd is rowdier, and a general feeling of drunken merriment reigns where genuine celebration had before. It isn't infective in the same way, thanks to that, but the music and celebration rises...only to fall quite abruptly. There's murmuring amongst the crowd, and Clarke is left mystified - until she sees one solitary flake, in all its delicate, defined edges, settle on the very edge of her scarf.  
  
_Snow_.

It isn't a significant snowfall, by any means, but it may as well be a blizzard to Clarke's eyes. She looks up and marvels as hundreds of tiny flakes swirl and fall on the waiting crowd. The adults are almost all looking up, genuine and huge smiles on nearly all their faces, while the children cheer and run around the square in front of the tower. Clarke has read about playing in snow in books and even she knows there isn't nearly enough to play with yet - but that doesn't stop them. They all laugh and jump with their tongues out, running around apparently trying to catch as many flakes in their mouths as possible.  
  
The scene is one of unbridled joy, and Clarke doesn't think she's ever seen anything like it. And she absolutely never expected to see it displayed on Earth, previously intimidating and hardened Grounders turned instantly into gaping, wide-eyed children. She laughs at the absurdity of it all, of how utterly adorable it is. She looks up and finds Lexa, looking up at the sky as well, a small smile on her face. Clarke is far enough away that she can't be sure, but she'd bet the knife on her belt that the Commander's eyes are just as wide with pleasure and excitement as any one of the children in front of her.

It takes longer for the crowd to disperse this time, even as the official party moves on. Nevertheless, individuals do gradually drift away, soon leaving Clarke alone in the courtyard with the snow. She takes a seat on the stairs just in front of the tower doors, and pushes her hand into the thin layer of flakes that's gathered on the stone. It's cold, but melts almost immediately under the warmth of her hand, the cold crystals turning into water against her palm.  
  
She's busy memorizing the feeling and the view when a voice sounds from behind her. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"  
  
Clarke jumps a little - for the first time in some time, she hasn't been paying attention to her surroundings - and turns to see a woman a little older than her, a heavy cloak draped over the lighter, flowing clothes of the Boat People. It's Helena, _Floukru's_ leader. She comes closer and sweeps the cloak beneath her as she sits, looking out across the courtyard at the gently swirling white. "I love snow. It's one of the only good things about winter."

"At least there's something beautiful to look at, even as we all freeze for the next few months." Clarke examines Helena, recalling what she'd read about her in Lexa's reports. There wasn't much of particular use, but she does recall her dossier having significantly less conflicts listed than some of the others. That has to be a good sign, at least.  
  
"I saw you and _Floukru_ arrive the other day. You must be Helena." Clarke holds out her hand. "I'm Clarke."

"A pleasure," she smiles, and shakes her hand. Helena is not just pretty, as Clarke had noted when she first saw her from afar; she's beautiful. Up close, Clarke can see the khol that lines her eyes, a red pigment painted across full lips. Her ears have a number of rings and studs in them, glittering in the light of a nearby torch. "I don't remember your face from previous years. Are you new?"

Clarke raises an eyebrow. What an overly simple, yet accurate, way to describe her existence here. "I suppose I am. I'm here as Lexa's...guest." She can't think of a reason not to, so she adds, "This is my first time in Polis."

"Ah, that would do it." Helena takes her hand back and tucks it beneath her cloak, looking out over the courtyard again. "And how do you find our fair capital?"

"I've never seen anything like it." Clarke shoves her own hands back in her pockets. Her right hand is already practically throbbing with cold after playing with the snow. "I never thought I'd see so many people in one place. What is _Floukru's_ territory like?"

Helena's nose squinches a little bit. "Better," she says, and gives Clarke a confidential grin. "I prefer being on the shore, on the sea. Many of our towns are either on the beach or float themselves, so I'm somewhat perturbed by the absence of water. It's just so _quiet_ without it."

Clarke chuckles. "I've never thought of it that way, I didn't grow up near much water. But the quiet, that I understand." She thinks of the Ark's massive engines, of the constant whirring of fans and electricity, the little taps and clicks that came randomly from the walls and floors for no observable reason. "You never notice that ambient sound until it's gone. Though I imagine the sound of moving water is more pleasant than some others."

"Mm. It is quite nice. Much better than the sounds of the city here." _Floukru’s_ chief is lost for a moment in some memory, it seems, but then she’s looking at Clarke again. "Where are you from, Clarke?"

Clarke hesitates. She doesn't like the idea of lying to Helena, for some reason she can't put her finger on. Something about the woman radiates a relaxed energy and feels inherently trustworthy - the thought of which immediately makes Clarke suspicious.  
  
"Very far away," she ultimately lands on. "I was living up in the mountains before I came here. I've never seen a boat, or anything even resembling a boat. I can't imagine living on one."

"There's nothing quite like it," Helena sighs. "There are some who come here having never lived anywhere but their home village, having seen nothing but the same trees and rocks _year_ after _year_. I can't imagine how trapped they must feel."

"They would never know the difference," Clarke muses, "if they'd never known anything else. It's people who have seen enough of the world that know there is something worth missing."  
  
Clarke examines Helena's posture, the way she folds her hands beneath her cloak and sits effortlessly straight. She looks at ease, but ready to move at any moment. Power and elegance, Clarke thinks. An impressive combination. She can see why Lexa likes her.  
  
"Maybe I shouldn't wish to see your villages built on water. Indulging my curiosity may mean that I'm never satisfied with trees and rocks again."

When Clarke's eyes find Helena's again, she's wearing the smallest of amused smirks. It isn't the same as Lexa's, made small because it's fighting through years of trained stoicism; Helena's seems small for Clarke's sake - as though she wants Clarke to know that she'd seen her looking her over, but is choosing to let it go.  
  
"If Lexa likes you, you must be a fine person," she says. "We would be glad to have you, if ever you decide that all that green is not your thing."

"Oh, I don't know how fine a person I am." Clarke meets Helena's eyes levelly. "But I appreciate the near compliment. I could say the same of you - Lexa seemed more pleased to see you than any other clan leader I've seen arrive."

"I should hope so; we've known each other long enough," Helena chuckles. "But it seems you know her, too. Do you often get insight on who she prefers and who she doesn't?"

"Actually no, I'd say most of what I know of Lexa is observed rather than her having told me." Clarke steals herself and releases her hand from the warmth of her coat pocket. If she just holds it out flat, dozens of tiny flakes and puffs fall and melt on the heat of her skin. They manage to melt less quickly than Clarke would've expected - she wonders how they could possibly be so cold that the delicate things don't melt instantly. "But a genuine smile from her is a rare thing - it doesn't take a genius to see that she considers you a friend. You've known each other a long time?"

"She isn't the most...expressive of people, is she?" Helena hums, watching the snow gather on Clarke's hand. "But yes - longer than most people, I would imagine. She was but a teeny _Natblida_ when my cousin first met her, and I was not long after that."

"Your cousin?" Clarke inclines her head, unable to hide her curiosity.

Helena nods. "She was a healer, and had been sent to learn with _Trikru_ the same summer Lexa was. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Lexa needed to see her quite a lot."

Clarke nearly snorts with the suddenness of her laughter. "I can imagine, given the way I've seen them train, how true that is. It's just hard - and extremely amusing - to imagine her fumbling around with a sword. I wish I could've been there to see her like that." The admission surprises her, but she doesn't take it back. Instead she says, "So then how did you become so close with her?"

The amusement and warmth that has been ever-present in Helena's eyes tempers somewhat, and an edge of sadness creeps in. "My cousin died," she says, and looks down at her hands. They move a little now, long, calloused fingers twisting together under her cloak. "Lexa and I knew each other well by then, because we were both close with her. So when she died..." Helena shrugs a little, and looks up at Clarke again. "We had each other."

Clarke nods sympathetically. "I am familiar with the feeling. Of losing someone you love." She suspects what the answer is, but asks anyway. "What was your cousin's name, if you don't mind me asking?"

“Costia." She offers the name easily enough, but watches Clarke as she does. "Why do you ask?"

Clarke merely nods again. She isn’t surprised, she’d expected the answer. “Lexa’s mentioned her name to me. No more than mentioned really, but I’m used to listening for things she doesn’t say. I’m glad you had each other. Have each other,” she amends. “I get the sense she doesn’t have many friends.” She thinks of Tera and the side of her mouth quirks up just slightly. “Actually, I’ve been told as much.”

Helena looks...struck by this explanation. Whatever motivations Clarke had for asking about the name, this was clearly not the answer Helena had been expecting. There's something new in her eyes now, behind the easy amiability - almost as though she's looking at Clarke a little more closely now.  
  
"It can be tough to make friends when you live in a lonely tower, I imagine," she says. "Running a coalition doesn't seem like a job that leaves much time for socializing."

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”  
  
Clarke studies Helena’s eyes. They’re blue, like her own, but darker. Harder to read than Lexa’s absurdly expressive eyes, but even so, they seem kind. Helena’s been nothing but honest with her, and knowing how close she and Lexa must be makes Clarke feel, annoyingly, worse about holding back the truth. But she can’t trust just anyone, and it isn’t only herself she has to worry about.  
  
And, no matter her feelings, the past few days have not been enough to make Clarke forget Mount Weather.  
  
“Politics has a way of destroying things, especially friendships. I’m impressed you’ve stayed so close over the years.”

"There...have been difficult times," Helena admits, her eyes dropping momentarily before looking back out at the snow. "But history has made it relatively easy for us. _Floukru_ and _Trikru_ have always been close - their alliance formed the backbone of the Coalition even before Lexa became _Heda_ , or I became chief. A friendship like that is hard to kill. Without, you know, actively trying to do so."

Clarke makes an _mmm_ sound in agreement. History. What she and her people have always been lacking. Knowledge of the Grounders' societies over the last century, relationships built over time as a foundation for peace - even a history of their own. People on the Ark were forever looking back to a time they could never return to, concerned with survival and a dim, totally unrealistic hope that they could someday recreate the past they saw in their precious recorded videos from before the explosions.  
  
But history is different now - it went on for a hundred years without them, while they were stuck in time above the earth. History belongs to the Grounders.  
  
"It's odd how hard those bonds are to make," Clarke says aloud, "in comparison to how easily they break. I certainly don't envy Lexa's position. I imagine it's hard enough to be a chief of one clan, let alone wrangle twelve of them to the same cause."

"Like wrangling a bunch of feral cats," Helena says, with barely disguised disdain curling her lip. "That she's the only person to have managed it since the fires speaks volumes on that count. But her work has helped the majority of people it has affected - even if most aren't interested in acknowledging that."

"She does what she thinks is right." Clarke watches two kids across the courtyard attempt to pack the small amount of snow on the ground into balls in their gloved hands. So far they seem to be ripping up grass as much as snow. "And what she thinks is best for her people. But she would be an unwise leader if she expected thanks. There's always someone who disagrees."  
  
Clarke smiles a little at the look on Helena's face. "Though I'm sure I don't have to tell you that, being a chief yourself."

"Indeed." That examining look is back in Helena’s eyes as she looks over Clarke. "You sound like you speak from experience yourself, Clarke."

"Some, I guess. Though not on purpose." Clarke shivers slightly from the cold. Sitting isn't doing her any favors, particularly in the light jacket she decided to wear. "Does your clan choose their chief? Or are you born into that role?"

"No, we're chosen." Perhaps feeling the same chill, Helena pulls her cloak closed over her torso. But her eyes do not leave Clarke. "It's nothing so involved as the Commander's trial, no one of us is designated in that way. But some parents will do everything they can to ensure their children have an advantage when they come of age. Many of us are captains first, or train with the warriors.  
  
"Which does make me wonder," she gives Clarke a side eye and a little smirk, "how does one lead...not on purpose?”

Clarke cups her hands to her face and blows air into them, partly to warm her hands and partly to give herself a moment to think.  
  
“I never wanted to lead. It never occurred to me that I would, but...” she purses her lips in thought. “Things changed. My people needed someone to take charge. I didn’t think about taking that responsibility, it just...fell into my lap. I felt like I had to do whatever I could. And here I am.”  
  
Clarke inclines her head at Helena. She still looks at her with those steely, thoughtful eyes, simultaneously kind and probing. “I’m sure I seem cryptic, but I don’t have the liberty to share everything about my life. My actions affect the people I love and have to protect. My life and my decisions aren't only mine anymore. You seem like the type of person who would understand that.”

And just like that, the probe retracts. Helena nods, understanding and empathy in her eyes. "I appreciate your honesty. I won't push you further. I trust that Lexa isn't harboring an enemy of my people in her walls, so you can keep your secrets." She winks. "For now, anyway."

Clarke grins. “I don’t plan to keep them for long. Especially if what I’ll get in return are more amusing stories about Lexa’s childhood training attempts.”

"Mm. It will be nice to have someone else to help make sure she never forgets them."  
  
They sit in comfortable silence for another few minutes before a messenger arrives to summon Helena inside for dinner. That leaves Clarke alone in the snow, the flurry of which has receded into only the occasional flake now and again. But there is a thin covering of it on the ground now, and before long a young woman with a broom appears and begins sweeping it from the courtyard paths.

Clarke stands slowly. Her muscles ache from sitting and the cold. She thinks of the nest of blankets she left in her room and imagines curling back up in front of the fire. If she were even a little more tired, her feet would win out over her head - but as it is, she knows she should eat something first, so she heads back down to snag something from Tera, hopefully before getting roped into dinner preparation.  
  
As she walks back into the tower and makes her way to the kitchens, she thinks over her conversation with Helena. Clarke had liked the woman instantly. It's no wonder Lexa enjoys her company so much.  
  
A flash of - jealousy? Clarke frowns at herself and physically shakes the feeling out of her head. It’s not her business to examine the exact relationship between Lexa and Helena. And even as she thinks it, she realizes how unfair even a flash of jealousy is. Beyond the fact that Lexa isn’t hers to be jealous over, there’s Costia. Clarke hadn’t needed much information to see Lexa’s pain when she told her the story. Not only was it clear in her eyes and her voice, but Clarke could’ve been told secondhand and known how Lexa would feel. It’s a feeling Clarke herself is familiar with, that haunts her every day. The knowledge that someone you loved died for the simple crime of loving you back.  
  
Clarke’s conversation with Helena also reminds her that her days of anonymity are numbered. She would never betray or endanger her people, but lying had felt strangely wrong. Lying has never been a particularly difficult thing for her in the past, but it felt forced with Helena. Not only because she felt intrinsically trustworthy - Clarke doesn’t have the luxury of acting under her feelings alone - but because Clarke is slowly coming to terms with reality.  
  
She is _Wanheda_ , whether she likes it or not. And denying that will do more harm than good.

Perhaps it will soon become difficult for her to move about the world without notice, but for now she lets her days hunting rabbits guide her feet. The kitchens are in an expected tizzy when she arrives, which means it's relatively easy to make herself small. Tera's eagle eyes are little match when she wants to stay hidden, it seems.  
  
She brings her pilfered prize back to her room and immediately settles into her nest with a sigh of relief. The fire had already been stoked high, and what cold remains in her limbs seeps out so quickly it leaves her skin tingling. She eats slowly, her book open in front of her, and doesn't remember even falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I typically can't stand it when folks add their OCs to fics. But then we went and did it, and my how the turn tables.
> 
> Also: sexual tension! Woo!


	6. What I've Always Wanted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Alcohol

Frost crunches beneath her boots when she heads to the training field the next morning. Most of the snow from the evening before has already melted, leaving only scattered clumps clinging to the cold steel and stone of the walls. Voices reach her before she turns the corner and, when she does, she sees Lexa and Ronnie chatting as they work to set up some kind of target. It's Lexa who looks up first but when Ronnie catches sight of Clarke, he's the first to greet her.  
  
"Good morning, Clarke!" He calls, straightening up from where he was crouched over the side of the round target. As he does, it becomes clear that a bullseye is painted on its canvas surface.

"Good morning, Ronnie." She trudges up to the pair of them, eyeing the canvas. As she gets closer, she spots a pair of unslung bows at his feet. Clarke shifts her attention over to Lexa, who is still adjusting the canvas over what she can now clearly see is a small pile of hay lashed together into a circular shape. "And to you, Commander. I didn't realize I'd earned myself an additional teacher."

"I'm just a laborer today," Lexa says, tying a knot tight with a snap. She looks up at Ronnie as she loops the rope into a second one. "Your teacher was having difficulty setting up the target on his own."  
  
Ronnie looks a little sheepish, his eyes on the ground as he kicks a rock. "We don't usually have to set them up..." 

Clarke chuckles. "Well in that case, I appreciate the effort. But I thought bows weren't of much use, Ronnie. Did you change your mind?"

He shrugs. "It's not much good for hand-to-hand combat. But I guess it's not a bad skill to have, if you want to learn it - could help with hunting and stuff."  
  
" _And stuff_ ," Lexa echoes under her breath. Ronnie doesn't hear her.  
  
"As long as we still work on close combat skills, it'll be fine."

“Well thank you for indulging me," Clarke addresses Ronnie but glances at Lexa as he moves to string one of the bows. "I hope to be doing more hunting in my life than fighting.”

"Don't we all," Ronnie mutters, and begins to wrestle the bow into shape.  
  
Finished with her work, Lexa stands and steps closer. "Good morning, Clarke. Did you sleep well?"

"I think so." Clarke cranes her neck absentmindedly to the side, stretching it out. She'd spent the night with it half on the arm of a chair and half on an open book. "I could get used to falling asleep next to a fireplace every night. What about you? Another night of politics?"

There's a moment of confusion on Lexa's face - perhaps as she's wondering how Clarke would fall asleep in front of a fireplace when she knows the bed is on the other side of the room - but she lets it go.  
  
"There was. But I was able to avoid some of the more annoying conversations." A blast of cold wind crosses the pitch, and Lexa pulls on the heels of her gloves. "Helena mentioned that she spoke to you last night. You saw the snow?"

“I did.” Clarke pulls her coat closer around her. She’d found gloves set out for her when she arrived back at her room last night, along with a thicker shirt and very fuzzy scarf. It was too soft to leave behind, and the hour it took for her fingers to even bend after her lesson with Ronnie yesterday convinced her to wear gloves. “It was lovely. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Lexa smiles a little, her eyes soft. "It was lovely, wasn't it?"  
  
Before she can say much more, Ronnie appears at her elbow. "Here," he says, and hands a newly strung bow to Clarke. "Sorry that took a minute. Ready to go?"  
  
Surprisingly, Lexa's smile doesn't fade in the face of this additional witness. She just nods a little to Clarke, her eyes lingering on hers. "I'll leave you to it."

“You don’t want to stay and watch me embarrass myself trying to hit this target?”

"No need to worry," Lexa says, walking backwards a moment to do so, "I won't be far away."  
  
She doesn’t exaggerate. Sword in hand, Lexa moves off only a few dozen paces, even as Ronnie walks Clarke a distance from the target.  
  
Archery requires a considerable amount of strength, it turns out. Clarke has never been so much a fighter as a survivor, better at outsmarting and outliving her opponent than at overpowering them - but she knows how to fire a gun. Even became pretty good at it, if she says so herself. But a gun doesn't fight you even as you're trying to aim the damn thing.  
  
It takes a while for her arms to get used to the tension, for her fingers to endure the press of the string. Each time she misses a shot, Ronnie grabs a new arrow - blunted, Clarke notes - from the collection he stuck in the ground at her side, and offers words of encouragement. Nevertheless, the annoyance mounts as her fingers grow raw.  
  
Seeing this, Ronnie calls a break, takes the bow, and hands her a quarterstaff. They work together for a little while, wood cracking against wood as they spar. As Clarke's limbs warm and after she gets a few good whacks in on Ronnie's side and shins, she begins to feel better.

They return to the bow, and with her fingers properly warmed up and her focus restored, Clarke finds it a little easier. The arrows stop falling short or overshooting and finally, _finally_ , one sinks deep into the straw near the middle of the target.  
  
" _Yes!_ Yeah, there you go!" Ronnie crows, his arms shooting into the air. "Woo!"

Clarke can’t help a grin from breaking out across her face, even as she says, “It’s the first one in what? About twelve dozen, to get even close?”  
  
She walks over to the target to yank the arrows out, including the one she’d just shot. When she comes back she still has a smile on her face and Ronnie is still whooping, and she can’t stop herself from holding a hand up for a high five. Which, of course, he instantly slaps.

“See? Just took a little warming up, that's all. I guess learning to shoot in the winter isn't really the best, considering fingers and all, but... Clarke?"  
  
Clarke isn't listening. Lexa is sparring with an instructor, but on the other side of the fence - over Ronnie's shoulder - Helena is sprinting towards them. Her cloak is spread out behind her as she runs full tilt, her expression is grim.  
  
"Lexa!" She calls, skidding to a halt at the fence. The Commander, hair damp and face shining with sweat, holds up a hand to her partner.  
  
"Helena?"  
  
"They're here," she pants. " _Azgeda_. They just entered the city.”

Clarke’s breath catches in her throat. She walks towards them at as much of a normal pace as she can manage, anxious to hear more. The reason she’s here... _Azgeda_.

" _What?"_ Lexa demands. Clearly this is not part of the plan. "They weren't set to arrive until this afternoon - how did we not know about this?"  
  
"They passed your sentries during the night," Helena answers, anger flashing behind her eyes. "Nia had them break camp after they checked in."  
  
Lexa's jaw sets as she sheathes her sword and ties it to her hip. "Of course she did."  
  
Her green eyes flash to the side, catching sight of Clarke lingering nearby. "Cover your head," she says, climbing the fence, "and keep your distance."

Clarke frowns. “Keep my distance? I want to know who this Ice Queen is.”

There is a flash of frustration in Lexa's eyes, and it looks for a moment like she might snap at her. Instead, she says, "Just stay out of sight."  
  
She doesn't stay long enough for Clarke to argue. Helena lingers to look at her, confusion in her eyes, but she doesn't voice her questions. Instead she turns and follows Lexa, both heading for the tower gate.  
  
Clarke hadn't heard Ronnie approach, but suddenly he's there. He points. "The wall."

Clarke tears her gaze from Lexa and Helena and follows his finger upward. The wall. Where she’d watched the sunrise.  
  
She raises an eyebrow at Ronnie. “Want to come?”

His face is resolute, and he nods.  
  
Together they skirt the wall until they reach the stairs Clarke had used the day before. They dash upwards, Clarke taking the steps two at a time, and keep low when they reach the top; already, they can hear the rumble of hooves approaching the gate.  
  
They find a vantage point a few yards behind where Lexa and Helena stand. Others have joined; Elena, Tumnas, Indra, the bald man in purple, and a handful of attachés linger by the entrance of the tower, none of them quite dressed for or jubilant about the occasion. When at last the hoofbeats are upon them, a dozen warhorses, either entirely black or white, speckled with grey, blast into the courtyard. They turn a thunderous loop around it, coming dangerously close to where Lexa stands to one side, before they finally slow their pace. As they pull to a pawing, trumpeting stop, a thirteenth figure enters the courtyard.  
  
Her horse is pure white, her cloak and hair a nearly matching shade. Both spill down her shoulders, though some locks are twisted into a knot of complicated braids at the back of her skull. Black kohl paints her eyelids and, across one side of her face, a handprint is stamped in white.  
  
"Welcome, Queen Nia of _Azgeda_ ," Lexa calls, both hands resting atop the pommel of her sword, one on top of the other. She stands tall, impressive...and yet, the difference between them is striking. Lexa wears black and grey training clothes, her hair disheveled and sweat staining her face and shirt. Glittering in white atop her horse, her skin pale but smooth as alabaster, Nia is all but ethereal.  
  
Clarke gets the sense that this scene is not accidental.  
  
" _Heda Leksa_ ," the queen says, and her voice is a commanding, arresting alto. She makes no move to dismount her horse. "I hope that we have not come at a bad time."

Clarke makes a quiet, angry sound from the back of her throat. She is simultaneously impressed and defensive. This Ice Queen - Nia, apparently - wields power in an almost obscenely effortless way. Yet it’s clear, at least to Clarke, that that’s as far as her admiration for the woman is likely to go. Even if she hadn’t known the Queen wanted to use her, alive or dead, Clarke is sure she’d never trust her.  
  
To top it all off, the way she looks down at Lexa from atop her horse...the scene deepens Clarke’s frown immensely. She can feel Ronnie tense beside her and doesn’t have to look at him to know he feels similarly.

"All who fly the Coalition's flag are welcome in Polis, no matter the time," Lexa answers. Though her tone and expression are their usual impassive selves, there's a pointed message in her response. The Queen smirks, but Clarke imagines she can see a flash in her eyes, a tightness in her jaw that betrays her.  
  
She swings down from her horse in a single, fluid motion, and her boots hit the ground with a _thud_.  
  
Beneath her cloak of white she is dressed in grey, and on her hip she wears a jagged, unsheathed sword, its edge curved backwards and steel pale as the winter sky. Crystals dot her clothing, sewn into hems and pieced into designs so that she glitters in the sun. She approaches Lexa, and Clarke thinks the two women - one in white, one in black - would be of a height, if it weren't for the former's heeled boots.  
  
"That is gracious of you, Commander," she says, and inclines her head. Her pale eyes do not leave Lexa's. "To leave yourself so open is a kind thing indeed. We will try not to take advantage of your hospitality."  
  
With that, the twelve other riders - all in black, with the white hand of _Azgeda_ painted across their road leathers - dismount from their horses as well.

Clarke does glance over at Ronnie then. His jaw is set and clenched, and though he maintains his low position, his hands grip the edge of the wall hard enough that his knuckles are pale.  
  
She hadn’t noticed her right hand inching toward her knife until her fingers brush up against the bulk of her coat. She moves it instead to grip Ronnie’s shoulder. Her grasp is tighter than she intends, but he doesn’t complain and she doesn’t relax.

There is a thick moment of tension, in which the wind itself seems to still and all present hold their breath. The Queen and the Commander stare each other down...and then Nia offers a gloved hand, and the tension breaks.  
  
"We accept your welcome, _Heda_ ," she says.  
  
There is a moment's hesitation - imperceptible to most, but Clarke knows Lexa's body language - and the Commander clasps her hand around Nia's forearm.  
  
"We are honored that you have joined us."  
  
With that, it is as though the whole group breathes a sigh of relief. Servants move forward to tend to the newly arrived horses, and the riders in black remove packs from their saddles. Tumnas breaks off from those gathered at the tower entrance to engage Nia, who he leads back inside. Lexa and Helena stand watching until most of the _Azgedan_ company has disappeared, and then both begin walking back towards the training pitch.

Ronnie nods his head back the way they came. She isn’t sure what to do but follow him.  
  
By the time they reach the training pitch, Lexa and Helena are deep in conversation. Ronnie seems hesitant to interrupt and hangs back, trying to look busy with organizing equipment, though Clarke estimates close enough to eavesdrop.  
  
Helena is facing in Clarke’s direction and is the first of the two to look up at her as she approaches.As soon as she does, Lexa turns as well; the Commander sees her coming for only a second before she waves a hand at Helena. "Enough," she says, just as Clarke reaches them, and turns to walk to the equipment pile.  
  
"But she did that _on purpose!"_ Helena answers, clearly incensed.

"It certainly seemed that way," Clarke agrees. "Is she usually so brazen?"

" _Any_ opportunity," Helena answers, speaking as much to Lexa as to Clarke. " _Every_ chance she gets to score a few points she takes, no matter how petty or--"  
  
" _Enough!"_  
  
Though Lexa does not raise her voice, she speaks with all the authority of thunder as she turns, drawing Helena up short. There's a beat of silence, and when she speaks again, her tone is its even, impassive self. "Go back inside, Helena. It will be some time before I can join the others, and I need you to run interference for me until I can. You know she cannot be left alone with the chiefs for long."  
  
Helena stands her ground for a moment longer, angry and resolute. But Lexa has clearly dismissed her, and as she returns to collecting equipment, Helena’s jaw works, her fists tense. And then she turns on her heel, a storm cloud making its way back to the tower entrance.

Nothing about the situation is inherently funny or charming, but Clarke feels a smirk tug at her lips anyway. It's nice to have someone else around to put Lexa in her place - or at least, someone who tries to. At the end of the day, Helena is still beneath Lexa. The chain of authority is clear and no amount of close friendship changes the fact that Helena is Lexa's subject, in essence.   
  
Lexa's relationship with Clarke, on the other hand, is far murkier.  
  
Clarke moves to pick up the bow she'd ungraciously dropped before running up to the wall. "She certainly knows how to make an entrance," she muses, knowing Lexa can hear her.

Even so, the Commander pointedly does not answer. She's counting out quarterstaffs, and as she tosses a handful to the ground with a clatter she looks at Ronnie. "Stop eavesdropping and take that target down."  
  
He jumps immediately into action, shamefaced and quick to be out of Lexa's sight.

Clarke gives Ronnie what she hopes is a reassuring smile as he runs past her to the target. Her training obviously over for the day, she yanks the blunted arrows from the ground and walks them back to the already stuffed quiver.  
  
Lexa is still organizing the equipment, her face all but unreadable. The slight cinch between her eyebrows and the way her nostrils flair now and again are the only signs that anything out of the ordinary happened this morning. That, and the fact that she's been so at ease around Clarke the last couple of days. She imagines she could probably push the Commander over by poking her in the ribs, she looks so stiff.  
  
"What are you thinking?" Clarke asks.

"That I do not wish to talk about it," Lexa answers tersely. Her voice is lower now, the conversation kept just between them - but she still doesn't look up, and her expression remains the same.  
  
She has seen grown men come at Lexa with swords, seen her cow warriors twice her size and stand unflinching before bald-faced, murderous rage. In comparison to those moments, this morning seems a small thing. Embarrassing, perhaps, but she knows that Lexa focuses on a bigger picture; whatever 'points' the Ice Queen scored would not be enough to put this much tension in her jaw. And yet…

"She's an overt grandstander, even a blind man could have seen that. I can't imagine her entrance swaying anyone. Except perhaps against her."

"That isn't the _point_ ," Lexa snaps, and throws another set of staves on top of the first. She puts her hands on the edge of the barrel that holds them and leans against it. Closing her eyes, she takes a breath and says: "She killed Costia."

Clarke's breath catches in her throat, surprised for an instant and in the next nodding with understanding. "I should've guessed. I'm sorry. But this can't be the first time you've seen the queen since then?"

"Not even remotely," she answers.  
  
Lexa breathes in, and then out slowly. Tension falls out of her shoulders, and she opens her eyes. "I cannot let her have this effect on me. She has already exploited this weakness once, and will do so again if given the chance. I must be stronger if my Coalition is going to survive. But every time I am forced to shake her hand, I can only think..."  
  
She's looking down at her gloved palm, which she's lifted and stretched out on the barrel's edge. Her eyes close, she shakes her head, and when she stands straight again, the composure of the Commander has returned.  
  
"Have you decided if you will stay for the festival?" She asks, looking at Clarke for the first time since being back at the training field.

"I will stay," Clarke says. She doesn't move from the fencepost she'd decided to lean on but pulls the gloves from her pockets and back on her hands. The skin on her fingers is raw from the cold and the bowstring. "Despite everything, and much as I dislike saying it, you are right. I should use what power I have, however I've gained it, to help my people."  
  
Clarke looks from one of Lexa's eyes to the other, searching her face. "Your strength and grace were obvious today, and your people were there to see it. It's just us here. There's nothing wrong with allowing yourself to feel sadness around..." she pauses, struggling to find the right word. "Around me," she lands on finally. "Your compassion is a strength. I, at least, know that."

There's emotion welling in Lexa's eyes - too much of it, it seems, for she quickly looks away. She blinks rapidly and clears her throat. "I - am glad you have decided to stay," she says, and her voice isn't quite as even as before. A quick glance at Clarke, and she amends, "Personally, I am glad."  
  
For a moment, it looks as if she wants to say more - but instead, says only, "But if that is the case, you should find Elena. Preparations will need to be made for your appearance, and she will be the best one to make them."

Clarke feels a pull in her chest, a desire to reach out and...do what, she doesn't know, and she doesn't allow herself to act on it.  
  
"Does that mean the festival is tonight? For some reason I felt..." Again, she's at a loss for words. Frustrated with herself, she sighs and shakes her head. "I think I was hoping it would never come, in a way."

"No - there are still more who will arrive today," Lexa answers. "The plan is for tomorrow evening. Do you..." She pauses a moment, chooses different words. "Would you be ready for that?"

"I have to be." Clarke's mouth quirks up in a sad smile. "I can't run forever. I have to protect my people, and this is the best way to do that. I hope, anyway."  
  
Ronnie has finished hauling the last bits of the target away and Clarke feels a pang of guilt at not offering to help. He sees her watching him and raises a hand to wave, nearly dropping the pile of hay in his hands.  
  
"I hope Ronnie forgives me for being less than forthcoming with him. And for derailing his training. Funny how that seems to be not far from the top of my list of concerns, given the sheer number of them."

"There are some worries that remain closer than others," Lexa agrees. She too stops to watch the Nightblood struggle to gather up the shifting hay. "It's much harder to conceptualize the fate of a nation than the disappointment of one young boy.  
  
"But I do not think you have much to worry about." She smiles a little. "Ronnie has a kind heart. I am sure he will understand."

"Something you have in common," Clarke observes aloud without thinking. She quickly adds, "But you're right, it is easier. I've been avoiding the personal implications of all this. I know it's the right choice - the longer we stay a mystery, the more of a villain we'll become. But it would be foolish to expect unanimous agreement, particularly when they aren't here to give their opinions. And even more so after I've been gone for so long..."  
  
Clarke winces, both at the daunting reality of that and the fact that she's once again said more than she intends. "Being a leader means feeling both constant inadequacy and responsibility to act, it seems."

Lexa offers a small, wry smirk. "I know the feeling."  
  
There's a commotion as the other Nightbloods begin to round the corner of the tower, and Lexa slips back into Commander mode. "Find Elena. And let me know if there is anything you need to help you prepare. I will be in my rooms after the evening meal, if you need assistance."

Clarke nods and turns to leave. That impulse from before is still there, not as strong but insistent. Before she can think too hard about it she turns back to Lexa and says, "Thank you for being so honest with me. It makes this..." she gestures lamely between them, hoping somehow Lexa will understand the feeling she herself doesn't fully comprehend, "easier. It makes..." she takes a deep breath, then, "trusting you, easier."

Lexa smiles then. It isn't big, but it also isn't wry; it's honest, in that purely honest way that only Lexa has ever managed. "I am not your enemy, Clarke," she says. "I know that I lost your trust, and that I may never get it back, not in the same way. But I have nothing to hide from you."

Clarke nods again. "I'll do my best to remember that." This time when she turns to leave she actually does keep moving, the other Nightbloods now just fifty or so paces away. She nods in their general direction and heads in the opposite, toward the last corner of the city she's yet to map out. If she has only one more day to herself, she plans to make the most of it.  
  
It's a chilly day, but not so bad with the scarf wrapped around half her face. The gloves provide a means to sketch for longer periods of time before her hands start to stiffen, which makes the work of mapping the city take less time. By early afternoon, Clarke sits on and against a pile of neatly stacked crates, the map laid out on the crate beside her and pinned down with rocks on each corner.  
  
The work now consists largely of shading and more distinctly outlining the various boundaries she'd observed. She could take the drawing back to her room and perfect it there, but every time she considers it she finds a new reason to stay outside. Even an hour later, when she's very nearly ruined several lines by drawing over them too many times and her stomach growls incessantly from hunger, she is loathe to return to the tower. Returning will mean finding Elena and planning tomorrow. Being in her room will involve strategizing and careful consideration of everything she'll need to do and accomplish, and anxiety to top it all off. Despite the circumstances that brought her here, she's been allowed nearly as full autonomy in Polis as she had in the wilderness. Tomorrow, all of that will change.  
  
Eventually, the wind does get the better of her. Again the sun begins to set earlier than she expects, and with it the temperature drops what feels like at least ten degrees. As if that weren't enough, by the time she stands up a rush of fatigue sweeps through her body, causing her to stumble before catching herself. She can hear her own stomach practically roar at her with hunger. The last meal she consumed was that morning, before she'd met Ronnie and Lexa.

Her feet take her back to her room, where she sheds her heavier outerwear in one chair and slumps in the other. Her feet ache, her limbs are cold, and her head swims a bit from lack of food - but she steals a few last moments of peace in front of the fire, letting the warmth seep into her skin.  
  
There were more clans who arrived during the day, meaning not only that all twelve were now present but also that the kitchens would no doubt be a chaotic mess. This might be her last night to talk to Tera as anything other than _Wanheda,_ but the thought of going down there now makes her temples pulse angrily.  
  
Instead, she presses the dreaded button.  
  
She'll have to talk to Elena anyway. This way, she could maybe hit two birds with one stone.

By the time Elena arrives, Clarke has to take a moment and blink several times after standing up in order to not faint. When had she become so reliant on food? She’d gone over forty-eight hours without food not one month ago! She really got used to this lifestyle quickly.  
  
Elena smiles easily at Clarke when she opens the door and even after she pulls the other woman into the room and explains her plan, Elena maintains her composure. Almost as if she’d known parts of this all along...something Clarke wouldn’t be surprised by, but chooses not to dwell on.  
  
“Essentially,” Clarke finishes, “I need to find a way to introduce myself to the other clan chiefs tomorrow night. Not necessarily with a show of force, but not...without force, either.” She feels, despite the confidence in her voice, a little at the end of her rope. “Does that make sense?”

Elena is sitting in the other chair - Clarke hastily moved her discarded clothing just moments before - one leg crossed over the other, a finger tapping against her lips. Clarke stands before her, the warmth of the fire to her back, and watches her anxiously as the seconds tick by. Though Elena is looking at her critically, her eyes squinted in thought, Clarke can't shake the feeling that there is something odd about this moment. All at once it hits her: she doesn't think she's ever seen the woman sit before.  
  
"Clothes," she says abruptly.

Clarke just blinks for a few moments. All she can manage in response is, “Clothes?”

Elena is on her feet, just like that. She moves around Clarke, one arm folded over her middle and her finger still tapping away against her lips as she examines her.  
  
"Before the Fires burned the world, they used to say that clothes make the man," she says, continuing to loop around her. Clarke shifts under her scrutiny, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "Or woman, in this case. I don't know if that's true, but it's as good a place as any to start."  
  
She stops in front of Clarke then, and finally looks up to meet her eyes. She drops her hand back to her side. "What sort of clothing are you most comfortable in?"

Clarke does her best not to fidget under Elena’s gaze. “I...prefer pants. I’m most comfortable in them, anyway. Otherwise, um...”  
  
Clarke has quite literally never had to consider what her fashion sense may or may not be. On the Ark, she was able to choose between maybe three types of shirts or pants at any given time. If she were lucky. Here on Earth, there's even less choice, magically-appearing-clothing aside. But she considers Elena’s meaning - that clothes enhance one’s power. “I feel more at ease in pants, but I like feeling feminine...I feel most confident when I feel...” she purses her lips and squints a little, reaching for the right word. “Desirable? No, it’s more like...powerful, in a feminine way...I don’t know what I mean. Am I making any sense?”

"Please - I've been dressing dignitaries and their attachés for over a decade, and most of them know everything about armor and not a thing about clothing." A thought sparks, and Elena hums. "Armor. Maybe."  
  
She makes another loop around Clarke. When she stops this time, it's behind her - and Clarke doesn't realize how close she is until she feels her fingertips brush her neck as she pulls some of her blonde hair back over her shoulder. "How do you feel about cleavage?"

Clarke does her best to reign in the jump at Elena’s touch, but even her best efforts don’t stop Elena from instantly retracting her hand.  
  
“I’m sorry, I’m. Jumpy.” Clarke does her best to give Elena a reassuring smile. “I feel fine about cleavage. Pretty much in every way.”

Elena looks concerned that she had offended Clarke for a moment, but with her reassurance, that expression fades. Instead, an amused smile takes its place. "Good to know.  
  
"So pants, yes, but feminine. Powerful, assertive..." Elena stops in front of her again and folds her hands in front of her. "How about capes?"

Clarke chuckles. “I think I’ll let Lexa keep her dominion over capes.” She cocks her head to the side, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly. “None of this phases you? I can’t imagine, even in your position, that you get requests like this every day. You’ve been so kind to me ever since I stepped foot in this city. If I’m putting you in a compromising position, please say so, and we can forget I ever said anything.”

"I serve the Commander," Elena says simply, and shrugs. "She approves of the plan, and I trust her. There's no compromising position to be worried about." She smiles then, and demurs a little. "Though I appreciate your concern."

“Well I wish I had your confidence.” Clarke sighs. “But I appreciate your help. Despite being totally unhelpful in the clothing arena...though it seems like you have a much better idea than I do, at this point.”

"I do have a few," she agrees.  
  
Elena produces a length of string from somewhere on her person, and begins to take Clarke's measurements. As she does so, she explains the series of events that compose the First Fall festival.  
  
Apparently, the site of the main event is a green space in the city; Clarke thinks immediately of the park she discovered days before. At sundown, the clans' representatives parade separately from the tower to this space, passing through the streets and engaging with the city's revelers. The Commander is the last to leave and the last to arrive, as it should already be dark by the time she reaches the bonfire that will be lit between three long tables. The Nightbloods and the clan leaders' attendants will be seated, but each clan leader will approach by themselves. They step from the darkness into the firelight to present themselves to the Commander and each other. She gets the sense that this is an old ritual, that once may have served as an opportunity to renew a pledge of allegiance.  
  
"That is when I suggest you introduce yourself," Elena says as she finishes marking down another measurement. "Once all Twelve Clans have been presented, step forward and introduce yourself in the same way. No one but Indra will expect you; she'll claim you as her guest, and you will be able to join them at the head table."

“Indra knows about this?” Now that's a surprise. “And she agreed to it?”

"She respects you," Elena says. "And Arkadia is in _Trikru_ territory, technically. It behooves the two of you to get along."

“My concern was for her more than myself.” Elena folds the paper she was using to write down Clarke’s measurements and puts it...Clarke watches her put it in a pocket in her dress, but she couldn’t identify where that pocket actually is if someone had a gun to her head. “But either way, once I’m there. What do people typically say? To present themselves?”

"You'll hear it as the others go before you," she says, and then recites, " _Ai laik_ \- and then your name - _kom_ \- your clan name - _en ai gaf skaikrasha klir._ "

Clarke nods slowly, already deep in thought. “What does it mean?”

"My name is Clarke of the Sky People, and I seek shelter from the storm." Elena smiles. "It's a little silly, but. Allies of Polis have been doing it for generations, and it can be a nice excuse to have everyone together in good spirits. _Heda_ particularly likes to use it to get everyone to talk to each other, for once."

“That would be something to see,” Clarke agrees. She means it sarcastically, but it comes out more sincere than expected. “It doesn’t sound silly at all to me. It sounds...” like exactly what Lexa intended when she made her Coalition... “poetic. I think the only part of this that still confuses me is Indra. She knows about this plan, I take it?”

Elena's smile quirks quickly, a smirk that's there and gone again as though she's laughing at a private joke. " _Heda_ will speak to her after dinner. But she owes a favor."

Clarke purses her lips and narrows her eyes at Elena in a playful look of disapproval. “What have I gotten myself into, putting myself in your and Lexa’s hands?”

"Only the safest hands in the Twelve Clans," Elena says. "I have an idea for an outfit, and can have it put together by tomorrow afternoon. We will need to have it fitted, though, to make sure the measurements are correct."

Clarke can’t help the skeptical twist of her mouth at Elena’s assertion that Lexa’s hands could possibly be the safest. “Well your hands, at least, I trust wholeheartedly. Just tell me where to be and when.”  
  
Almost before she’s able to finish the sentence, Clarke’s stomach rumbles. She winces at the noise. “I really should plan ahead more.”

Elena's eyes flick down and back up. "Can I send you up some dinner, perhaps?"

“Ah...yes, please. If you don’t mind. I haven’t actually eaten since...” Clarke rolls her eyes as her stomach asserts itself again, this time via a high pitched whine, “...well, a while. I promise to be here tomorrow afternoon, whenever you want me.”

"Good," Elena smiles, her hands folded in front of her. "I will find you when we're ready. In the meantime, I'll have some dinner sent up."

Clarke thanks her and, as soon as the door closes, collapses into what has become her favorite chair. She has no right to be so tired but the hunger in her stomach has turned to an ache, and it feels like it's spreading slowly out into her limbs. When there's a knock on the door and it opens again, she almost isn't surprised to realize that she'd dozed off.  
  
The plate of food that she takes from the young man who brought it up is piled absurdly high with thick slices of what she takes to be venison, potatoes, all manner of vegetables - even a thick, somewhat fresh piece of crusty bread. All with some kind of gravy haphazardly poured over everything. It smells amazing and her mouth instantly waters.  
  
It tastes just as good as it smells, if not better, and it takes every last bit of Clarke's self restraint to read between bites and not wolf the entire plate down in one go. Her stomach will rebel after so long without food if she eats too quickly. By the time she's finally finished, she determines it has to be well past the dignitaries' dinner.  
  
There is, as always, a pile of fresh clothes at the foot of the bed. Clarke picks out a dark red shirt - almost maroon, really - with long sleeves. It isn't made of fur, that much at least is obvious, and yet it's still so soft. Just putting it on makes her want to curl back up in her chair, but she resists the urge. There are comfortable looking pants as well, but they don't look particularly utilitarian. They don't even have pockets, which Clarke finds completely baffling. Why would any pair of pants not have pockets? She pulls on a different pair of dark grey, jean-like pants and feels instantly comfortable - equally ready to run and fight as she is to relax. And with at least four pockets at her disposal.  
  
Clarke doesn't bother putting a jacket on or hiding her face as she walks the now familiar halls to Lexa's room. The likelihood of someone recognizing her now is so small, and even if they did, they could hardly act on it before tomorrow night.

When she knocks, there is no immediate response. A glance down the hall one way and then the other tells her that the guards are still there and are still watching her. She knocks again, but again, there's no response. There's no way the dinner hasn't wrapped up yet, and Lexa had told her she would be here...  
  
Neither set of guards move as she reaches for the door handle - or react when, surprisingly, the door opens.  
  
Clarke pokes her head in to find the room populated by candles, books, a roaring fire, and no Lexa.

She certainly doesn't want to be found uncertainly sneaking into the Commander's bedroom. Her mind, for all its imagination, can come up with no innocent excuse for that and she slips in quickly, closing the door softly behind her.  
  
Uncertain of what to immediately do, Clarke takes a few cautious steps into the room. "Lexa?" The uncertainty sneaks into her voice and she frowns, firming her resolve before calling out again, "Lexa? I hope I'm not intruding..."

There's a splash from the bathroom, a muttered Trigedasleng curse - then more water moving, pattering against the ground.  
  
"Clarke?" It's Lexa's voice, echoing from the same direction. " _Fok_ \- just a moment."

Clarke does feel the littlest bit bad about surprising Lexa - though she shouldn't exactly be surprised, given that she'd invited Clarke - but she can't help the chuckle that escapes her lips. Her limbs are still a little shaky and sore, and she doesn't trust herself not to doze off if she sits down again while she waits. Instead she chooses a bedpost at the foot of Lexa's ridiculously enormous bed, the one closest to the bedroom door, and leans casually against it.  
  
She takes the time to take in some of the finer details in Lexa's room without the other woman around to see. The bed, while neatly made, holds the faint impression of a body on the left side. As if Lexa had laid down for a moment without disturbing the covers and blankets. The headboard is smooth and polished to the point of gleaming. Small, but detailed animals and plants twine to make a disjointed scene carved into the wood. Books are everywhere, as always. Most Clarke can't identify, but she recognizes the one on the table closest to the bed well enough: _Pride and Prejudice_. Of course. Clarke shakes her head in amusement - and with the littlest bit of fondness - at the Commander's choice of reading material.

"My apologies, Clarke."  
  
She hadn't heard the Commander approach, but there she is. Lexa stands at the dark wood divider that separates the bedroom from the rest of her quarters, a damp cloth in her hands. Her hair is damp as well, falling in long, dark, loose waves over her shoulders and down her back...and as Clarke's eyes follow those waves, they land on the soft, silken fabric of the robe that Lexa wears. It's black, like most things in her wardrobe, and she can tell that it's thin without even touching it; the way it hangs off the angles of Lexa's shoulders, breasts, and hips are indication enough. Its closure leaves a V of skin bare beneath her collarbone, and exposes a sliver of black ink beneath the edge of the fabric.  
  
"I must have dosed off - it has been a taxing day," she continues, and Clarke believes it; exhaustion is written on Lexa's face, evident in the circles beneath her eyes. "Even so, I should have been expecting you."

Clarke sucks in a quick, deep breath. Her mouth dries out in an instant. Lexa's a beautiful woman, that isn't news to Clarke - that might've been one of the first thoughts she'd had about the Commander. Quickly observed between calculations and half considered, half impulsive remarks, but a thought nonetheless.  
  
But she's never seen Lexa this way. Relaxed and vulnerable, still imposing but in a different sort of way. Clarke finds herself feeling simultaneously somehow more intimidated by this Lexa than the Commander she's used to...and a feeling, separate but fueled by the first, that can only be described as _hungry_. The thought makes her cheeks grow warm. It's an effort to force her gaze back to meet Lexa's and it's obvious, at least to Clarke, that her blue eyes practically rake themselves up the other woman's body to get there.  
  
"No, I'm sorry." Her throat feels scratchy. She wets her lips and swallows. "I'm sure you need rest wherever you can get it, I wish I hadn't interrupted." She smirks a little, relieved to hear the confidence return to her voice. "Though, in my experience, a bath isn't the safest place to take a nap."

There's a moment after their eyes meet in which Lexa must notice - whether through the flush of Clarke's skin, or a betraying look in her eye, or through somehow hearing the suddenly rapid pace of her heart - but she _must_ notice something, because the look in her eye changes as well. Her face warms, her gaze drops, but something about her body language tells Clarke that she isn't embarrassed about being caught this way; her stance remains confident, and she makes no move to cover herself. Nevertheless, she looks decidedly...flustered.  
  
"I nearly drowned myself waking up," Lexa agrees. She wrinkles her nose, and Clarke can easily picture the snorting, surprised cough that claimed her when she startled so hard it sent her under the water. She's been there herself, after all.  
  
Her eyes lift again, candlelight reflected in them and painting her flushed skin in bronze and gold. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Clarke has regained her voice, but her body is still betraying her; her heart rate doesn't slow, if anything it increases with every passing second. Her chest constricts and suddenly feels too small a cage for her lungs. She imagines how fast her pulse would feel if she checked it right now, and her hand involuntarily clenches, as if forcing itself not to move up to her neck and do just that. It suddenly feels far too close to the panic attacks she'd somehow, after only two days, forgotten about. The littlest bit of fear creeps into her mind at the thought.  
  
"I just wanted to make sure we're on the same page. About tomorrow." Clarke pushes herself off the bedpost, more forcefully than she intends, and walks over to the chair closest to the fireplace. She sits and absentmindedly rubs at her temples, willing her blood pressure back to normal. "Elena says Indra knows about this now?"

"She does," Lexa answers. Her voice comes from the other side of the divider, as she has not followed; the dull sounds of drawers opening and closing accompany her words. "You would not be welcome at the feast, as you are not a member of the alliance. But tradition allows those who are not formally allies to join, as long as they are sponsored by someone who is. Arkadia is in _Trikru's_ territory; it would make sense for her to be your sponsor."

"It does make sense. But I would've liked to discuss it with her myself." Clarke surreptitiously puts two fingers on her wrist and sighs. Back to normal. "We won't get very far as allies if you're always needed to force us together."

There's quiet for a beat, Lexa's voice absent over the rustle of fabric.  
  
"A fair point," she concedes. A moment later she steps around the divider, now dressed in a pair of soft black pants and a grey shirt. She finishes pulling the robe back on as she crosses to where Clarke sits, but doesn't tie it closed. "I can call for her now, if you would like to speak with her directly."

The idea of having a potentially stressful and almost certainly tense conversation right now seems like the opposite of what Clarke would like. Somehow she'd found some middle ground with Lexa - being in her presence, particularly when they're alone, has Clarke speaking more often than not without all those spiky, ten-mile-high walls she's so used to throwing up. Speaking with Indra will certainly not provide the same relief, but even so...  
  
"I think I would." Clarke's too tired to stop herself from examining Lexa's new attire. She still looks like the Commander, even in what must be the clothes she prefers to sleep in. They would be useful for little else, in any case. "I don't want to intrude on her evening, but I'd like to speak with her about this. It doesn't have to be tonight...I don't suppose I could find a way to speak to her in the morning?"

Lexa has settled into a space on the couch that is opposite Clarke, and still bathed in the warmth of the fireplace. She folds one leg over the other, a hand each in her lap and on the armrest, and back straight as though she were sitting on her throne. Her full attention is on Clarke.  
  
"I can have word sent," she answers. "It would be too much of a risk to have her sent to your rooms, but there will be little question if I call her here. That way you can speak privately and candidly - even if I am not here with you."

Clarke can't help the way her mouth curves up a little at Lexa's obvious misunderstanding of the idea of privacy. "I'd appreciate that. I don't want to kick you out of your room, but you're right. It does seem the best place."

She nods. "Consider it done. Return here when you are finished with your training tomorrow, and I will have Indra come to meet you."

"Thank you." Clarke leans back and sighs again, somewhat relieved to put that conversation off until tomorrow. Until she remembers that isn't all she needs to know. "Can I ask you something?"

A small smile passes briefly over Lexa's lips, as though the question were an unnecessary one. "Of course. Anything you wish."

"What do you hope happens tomorrow night?" Clarke searches Lexa's face. "I've made my decision, I won't back down now. But the result I hope for in this plan is...less defined. I want to help my people, I want the other chiefs to regard us as equals, as worthy of their respect and compromise. I'm making a bet that this stunt will aid me in that endeavor. It's a good bet, but a bet nonetheless. But what do you hope for? Politically, personally, however you think of it...what do you hope this will accomplish?"

Whatever amusement remained in Lexa's expression fades now, a thoughtful, serious look taking its place. She looks down, the crackling of the fireplace the only sound as she gathers her thoughts, searching for the right response.  
  
"What I have always wanted," she answers at last, and her eyes find Clarke's again. "Peace. Prosperity. Safety for my people. Most of us are not yet accustomed to the idea; war has always been our way, and many wish to return to those ways. The Sky People are an easy target, as there is no alliance to be broken by moving against them. But as in our fight against the Mountain, such aggression would bring nothing but unnecessary pain and great bloodshed - you yourself have demonstrated how easily your technology can allow a hundred of your fighters to outlast five hundred of mine."  
  
For a moment, the smell of rocket fuel and burning bodies fills Clarke's nose again, the fire still smoldering on the bodies of the Grounder warriors who had gotten caught in the blast floats before her eyes. Her fists clench, her chest tightening anew...but Lexa continues, and the memory fades.  
  
"Better to use that technology to help each other," she says. "We already have an agreement, albeit a tentative one. Your healers teach mine, and in exchange we give them food for the winter. We can help each other, even if some are not able or willing to understand that yet. My hope is that you can help me solidify that relationship. You are strong, Clarke - intelligent, persuasive. You have led your people since you first fell from the sky, and even now they believe in you. I know you have little reason to trust me; I am not blind enough to believe a week's time can change that. But I am confident that, if you are willing to be, you can be a powerful ally in this battle."

“Necessity.” Clarke follows Lexa’s gaze to the fire. It crackles, flecks and embers popping around a broken piece of wood. “Trade, alliances...all because some of us have things that others need. And are unwilling to give them without a price, more to the point.  
  
“Just because I understand the necessity of peace a little better than others doesn’t set me far apart from them. I need something from them, and I’ll have to give something in return.” Clarke’s eyes strain a little from the heat, but she doesn’t look away. It feels oddly comforting, the feeling of being too warm. “I only hope it will be enough. I hope healers and knowledge - and whatever influence my newfound title yields - will be adequate levers to achieve that peace and prosperity. I don’t want to threaten people with violence, and I don’t want that to be the root of the respect we gain, if we gain it. Wielding power and technology that way will only serve to hurt us in the end. I don’t want to threaten anyone,” she repeats. She turns away from the fire and finds Lexa’s eyes again. “But I will, if I have to.”

It's a warning, not a threat, and Lexa is able to parse the difference. She nods, and says, "I understand. And I would expect nothing less. I respect you, Clarke, and I hope that we can work together. But I know that you have to put your people first. This would not work otherwise."

“Wouldn’t it?” Clarke manages a wry smile. “Wouldn’t everything work much better, for you and the Coalition, if I put your interests above theirs?”

"Perhaps in some ways," Lexa says with a shrug. She doesn't match Clarke's smirk, instead answering with an easy, nonchalant honesty. "But I have advisors who have that viewpoint already - and they are of little help in negotiations once that bias becomes apparent. Peace is never built through easy compromise; if both sides are to be satisfied, they must both come with their own interests first."

"A wise observation." Clarke cocks her head. "I'm glad that you respect me. That much, at least, I've never doubted. But it's not just respect. You trust me - or you are trusting me, in this. You must be. You're helping me gain power for myself and for my people - people who you have an agreement with, but who are not a part of your Coalition and therefore not beholden to follow you. You can't know what will happen after you do this, what choices I or they will make. You are trusting me, and..."  
  
Clarke's brow furrows and her nose wrinkles in thought. She's just thinking out loud now, at ease when she shouldn't be. But the frustration that comes from that doesn't change the greater feeling of wanting an answer. "I just want to know why. Why do all of this, why hide me here and help me plan a path toward greater influence with no promise of anything in return? Why do you feel you can trust me?"

Lexa's cool, professional demeanor falters. She looks over to the fire, her finger running over the edge of the armrest again and again. Clarke can see her jaw move; it's subtle, maybe merely a play of the firelight, but at this angle she thinks she sees the joint of Lexa's jaw shift as she swallows.  
  
"There are...selfish reasons," she admits carefully. Her eyes drop back to her lap for a moment. "But I am also confident that you will come to the same conclusion as I have. War will destroy us. Peace will help us. I cannot know what form that will take, and there is little question that it will be a long, difficult road to get there." She looks up, directly into her eyes. "You are wise beyond your years, Clarke. Like me, you were born to lead. And I would rather find the way through this with you at my side, than any that I have yet met in _Skaikru_."

"Oh, I don't know about that. I thought I was born to be a doctor - or an artist sometimes, in my wildest dreams. It never occurred to me that I would be this instead." Clarke smiles a little, imagining Bellamy or Octavia - or Raven, that would be something - in her place, but it twists back to a frown when she realizes the difference she's parsing. Her friends, who would so easily condemn Lexa for abandoning them at Mount Weather, would have made the same decision if they were in the Commander’s place. Not easily, she's sure, but they would have made it all the same. Clarke has given it endless hours of thought, and she's almost sure that she wouldn't. It's what sets her apart from her friends, and perhaps why she's here when it could have just as easily been any of them. She's uncompromising in her beliefs, but those beliefs differ from most. Another thing she and Lexa have in common.  
  
But for all that, she's still not convinced any of that makes her a better choice for a leader. Not that that matters now.  
  
"In any case. We have the same goal, at least when it comes to peace. I hope we can realize that vision together. No matter what happens, even if my decisions seem otherwise, I'd like you to know that's what I want. For some reason I would still rather navigate this with you than anyone else. Besides perhaps Ronnie." Clarke purses her lips, trying not to smile. "He seems a tad more malleable than you."

Lexa's eyebrow goes up, but there's amusement in her eyes. "Malleable is what you wish? I took you to be a woman who enjoys a challenge."

"Oh, not always. When it comes to politics, I could do with a little simplicity now and again. Certainly it would be a nice change of pace." Clarke leans back in the chair and drapes one leg over the other, never taking her eyes off Lexa. "Though in other arenas, it hardly seems worth doing if it's not a challenge."

Clarke watches every moment of Lexa's minute reactions - the flash of her eyes down, following the movement of her knee, the tightening of her throat as she gulps...and the reappearance of that look in her eye, the same she had while laid out before her in the grass of the training pitch. One not all that different from what might have claimed Clarke's face not twenty minutes before: _hunger_. It's fainter than it was then, more controlled in these close quarters, but it glints in the room's golden-orange light nonetheless.  
  
"All the more reason for me to have made my choice," Lexa says, and her voice is lower than before.  
  
She stands then, her open robe fanning out behind her - not unlike her heavy coat - as she crosses to fill two cups from a carafe. When she returns, she stands in front of the fireplace and offers one to Clarke, inviting her to stand with her.  
  
"Let us drink together, then," she says, in an echo of an agreement once made long ago in an ancient subway station, "to a future that is peaceful and prosperous - for both our peoples."

Clarke follows suit and takes the cup, suddenly very aware of Lexa's fingers brushing against her own. This close, the Commander's eyes practically sparkle in the firelight. They usually strike Clarke as bright, out in the sun - alert, aware, keenly observant - but now they're a deep, forest green, dark and intense. It's clear there's something behind them, something Lexa is thinking, but for once Clarke has no idea what it could be.  
  
"That is a future I could get behind," Clarke says. Her voice is quieter than she expected. "To us, as well. For ensuring it is so."  
  
Their glasses make a _clink_ sound and they both take a sip. Lexa doesn't avert her eyes, and Clarke stubbornly refuses to be the first to look away. "Or, more accurately, for doing our best to make it so."

That makes Lexa grin, a rare, full version of the expression that reaches her eyes and spreads from one corner of her mouth to the other. "We all die for something, I suppose," she says, and lifts her cup to drink again. "It might as well be a good something."

Clarke smiles back. "Actually we don't all have to die for something. Most people don't. Maybe we're lucky that we have something worth dying for." She tips the cup back against her lips and before she knows it has practically gulped down the entirety of its contents. "You know, this will be the last time I can walk in here without someone reading into it." She chuckles. "Or reading more into it than they already do. I'll miss that anonymity."

"That...is an unfortunate concern, yes," Lexa admits, and she looks genuinely saddened by it as well. "One that is good to be conscious of. There will be fewer eyes once the festival is over, at least, but there will be eyes nonetheless."  
  
She looks at Clarke a moment, the distance between them still so small. "Would you like to stay a while?"

"I would," Clarke admits, probably too quickly but she's beyond caring at this point. "Maybe it's silly, but I have this feeling that once I leave this room...I don't know. It will be different, the next time I'm here. And maybe every time after that. But you're exhausted, nearly drowning in your own bath is proof enough. I can't blame you, given everything that's gone on today." _Azgeda's_ entrance this morning feels like a lifetime ago, even to Clarke, and her day was far less filled with tiresome politics. "I don't want to be the reason the Commander sleeps through her own party tomorrow."

Lexa's grin returns to full force, and she waves this away. "Nonsense. I would appreciate the opportunity to talk about something other than backhanded politics. It will help me sleep better." She lifts her cup again. "As will the wine, I'm sure."  
  
With that, conversation turns to more inane topics. The two women talk well into the night, the fire burning lower as they discuss books, people, and Polis. Lexa grows no more animated than usual under the influence of the next two glasses of wine, but her cheeks do darken with a soft red color by the end of it. Though perhaps, Clarke thinks fleetingly and with a pleasant jump of her stomach, that was a result of them sitting so close together; after getting up to poke the fire, Clarke had settled down on the couch. When Lexa returned with refilled cups, she claimed the spot beside her - far enough not to touch, and to be comfortable, but enough that Clarke felt exceptionally aware of where Lexa's body was in relation to hers.   
  
Yet another feeling it’s probably better not to investigate.  
  
When the conversation does begin to wind down, the energy between them flagging with the weight of the day, Lexa walks Clarke to the door. Just as Clarke is about to leave, she reaches out to touch her shoulder.  
  
"May luck go with you tomorrow, Clarke," she says, earnestly offering her what support she can give. "You are more than a match for all of them, I am certain of it."

"As are you, Lexa." Clarke smirks a little, more confident now than she was before. Another effect of wine she'll have to remember. "I'll see you tomorrow night. Sleep well."  
  
By the time Clarke leaves Lexa's room, she has almost no idea what time it is. It's well into the night, that's for certain. The guards are still there and don't move at her presence, but her cheeks burn at the realization of what exactly this looks like. Thankfully, she sees no one on her way back to her room.  
  
The little nest she's created for herself in front of the fire - still, impossibly, burning at this time of night - now consists of several blankets, two pillows, and the book Lexa had leant her tucked safely away from the fire. Clarke doesn't even bother getting undressed; just pulls off her shirt on the way down to snuggling into the blankets. She doesn't normally sleep on her stomach, but she's too tired to move and is asleep within minutes.


	7. Wanheda

By the time Clarke wakes, she already knows she'll be late to meet Ronnie. Even so, she springs up and hurries through her morning routine, practically yanking clothing on without giving her choices much attention. The important choice is easy - her light, but warm brown jacket, quickly becoming her favorite item of clothing, and the soft gloves she'd discovered the day before. Halfway down to the training pitch she realizes that she forgot her scarf, but there's no time to head back. There's a hood on the jacket and that will have to do.

She never thought she'd miss alarm clocks.

There are flurries of snow falling when she reaches the courtyard, the clouds above keeping the morning grey and cold. It is a little darker today than previous mornings, but there are even darker clouds on the horizon.  
  
"Morning, Clarke!" Ronnie calls, grinning and chipper as ever. Lexa is sparring hard several yards from him, the crack of staff against staff painting a syncopated rhythm with her grunts and shouts of exertion. She doesn't notice Clarke approach. "Rough night?"

“Morning, Ronnie,” Clarke calls to him. She hops over the fence easily and trots over to him. Her muscles, at least, feel well rested. Even the short time she slept can’t stop the energy pumping through her veins today. “Not rough, but late. I swear, I used to be able to just think of a time and my body will wake up exactly that many hours later.”

"Sounds to me like you've gotten soft," he grins, and tosses her a staff. "Let's get you roughed up."  
  
Training passes much the same as it has the last few days; first staves, working on footwork and reaction time. When they are done with that though, Ronnie hands her two knives instead of a sword. There's no sparring, just repeated forms for using both at the same time.  
  
She's so wrapped up in the training that she manages to forget, for at least a little while, what's to come later that day. And then, when Ronnie collects the equipment and hands her a water skin instead, it all comes crashing back down.

“Ronnie?” He makes an _mmhm?_ sound in between gulps of water. “Do you and the other Nightbloods have any special place in the ceremony tonight?”

The question catches him off guard, and Clarke watches him almost physically shift gears. Over her shoulder, he watches Lexa knock her sparring partner flat on her ass.  
  
"We get dinner," he says with a shrug, and returns his attention to Clarke. "And afterwards, we're supposed to talk to the clan leaders. Since one of us is gonna be _Heda_ one day, they usually wanna talk to us now. But I don't like them much."

Clarke chuckles. "No? You dislike all of them?"

“Well, no. I guess some of them are alright," he admits, but follows up by pulling a face. "But the reason they want to talk to us is...not great.  
  
"Why do you wanna know?" He asks, sudden new interest in his eyes. "Have you been invited to go?"

"I was under the impression that everyone was invited." Clarke rolls her wrists to relieve the ache that's creeped into them. "But I've never been, so I'm curious. Lexa informed me that there's dancing, but I have a hard time envisioning her doing anything other than that." She jerks a thumb back at the Commander, now helping up the poor soul she'd just thoroughly beaten.

Ronnie laughs at that. "You're not wrong! There is dancing, but not everyone likes to. _Heda_ does usually avoid it when she can. I don't know why - I think it's fun, and it's great for footwork. But there's something about being formal or...something, I'm sure."

"You know," Clarke makes a face as if deep in thought, "I don't think I can even imagine Lexa dancing." She laughs at the image in her head. Certainly Grounders don't waltz, but the image is too entertaining to completely dismiss. "Maybe I'll help you escape from the clan leaders and in return, you can teach me how to dance. If you're just as good a dance instructor as you are a weapons trainer, I'm sure I'll pick it up in no time."

He raises an amused eyebrow. "I thought you weren't going tonight," he says. "How will you save me from the others?"

"I didn't say that, I said I've never been. I am in fact being sponsored to go," Clarke admits. Ronnie will see her there anyway, and she's had about enough of half-lying to him. It's hard enough with everyone else - lying to Ronnie feels wrong on a personal level. "I couldn't exactly say no," - not a lie - "but I admit I'm not looking forward to the more formal aspects of it either. Maybe we can save each other and run off when no one is looking." That plan is so absurdly far fetched that she means it as a joke, and adds a wink at Ronnie for good measure, but her voice holds more sincerity than she expected. As impossible as it sounds, she's confident she'll want nothing more than to sneak away with him after the ceremony.

His eyes go wide, and the adolescent's frame begins to positively vibrate with excitement. "You'll be there?? That already makes it better! How did you get an invite? Who's sponsoring you? Will you be sitting with--"  
  
" _Natblidda,_ " calls a voice from behind her, and Ronnie's head snaps up to look at the trainer Lexa was working with. "Quit your chatting - you're going to be late."  
  
The other Nightbloods had arrived at some point in the last few minutes, and were already crowding around the equipment pile to collect their things. In the process of discovering this Clarke catches Lexa's eye, and the Commander nods wordlessly to her.

Indra. Clarke hadn't forgotten about her appointment with the _Trikru_ clan chief, but she has once again lost track of time. She takes the equipment Ronnie was carrying from him and ushers him toward the other Nightbloods. "Don't get in trouble on my account, then we'll never escape! I'll see you tonight."  
  
Ronnie grumbles but does as he's told - and his face lights up in a smile again when Clarke mentions seeing him later. She shakes her head and watches him run over to grab what she now knows is his favorite practice sword before anyone else can snatch it up.  
  
Clarke doesn't run, but she does walk quickly back to the tower. She had planned to have some time to wash up before meeting Indra, but she doesn't know exactly when Lexa told her they were meeting and she doesn't want to leave the other woman waiting.

Sure enough, when she opens the door to Lexa's quarters, Indra is there. She had been looking out over the city from the room's high windows, but turns at the sound of the door opening.  
  
"There you are," she says, but Clarke estimates this is her usual acerbity rather than a specific response to her. "What is this about?"

"I'm sorry for keeping you waiting," Clarke closes the door behind her. "Ronnie has a way of making me forget how much time has passed."  
  
Indra just raises an eyebrow expectantly.  
  
"Anyway." Clarke walks over to where Indra stands and joins her in looking out over the city. The sky is, somehow, even grayer than it was earlier, casting shadows over the city's slanted roofs and narrow streets. "I wanted to speak with you myself about tonight. I didn't realize Lexa would intervene on my behalf. Your people are most affected by the presence of mine, and the same is true of us and _Trikru_. I'm very grateful that you've agreed to sponsor me this evening, but I'd rather we discuss this on equal footing - without any of the pressure a request from the Commander may carry."

"The request had been made, the pressure is there," Indra says lowly. "What difference will this make?"

Clarke looks over at the other woman. Indra holds her hands behind her back, her stance steady. Equal parts lethal and casual. Clarke envies her the ability. "Perhaps it is silly, or a formality, but even so. Lexa may have asked you to help me, which is very much the same as commanding it, but you and I are the ones who will be most affected. Our people will be most affected. Even if it isn't your choice, I'd like to know your opinion."

Indra just looks at her from the corner of her eye for a moment. Then, "Your people dropped a city on my land." A beat. And then, her eyes turning away again, she continues, "Where once there was wood, there is suddenly a whole other clan, with walls and steel and things I've never seen, sucking up resources that were ours without a thought to repayment. It was one of yours that massacred my people, civilians and children in their homes, and because of you the Mountain dropped fire on Ton DC."  
  
There's another pause, and it looks for a moment like Indra is finished. But then she sighs, and the hardness goes out of her face. "But you have also respected our ways. For the most part." Another pointed side-eye. "You paid for the actions of your people, and were strong allies in the fight against the Mountain. You destroyed our enemy for us, and even now your healers return our people taken by the Red to us.  
  
"I will not let the land go without cause," she promises, and at last turns fully to look at Clarke, "but the Commander is not wrong. You have shown yourselves to be honorable before. It is possible we can come to a solution now."

 _All fair points_ , Clarke thinks. Some not exactly her or her people's fault, but fair just the same. "We came without warning, and went about surviving the only way we knew how. I know it's been a...less than smooth transition." Indra makes a sound that's suspiciously close to a snort, but Clarke continues, "I know what part we've played in everything that's happened. I'd like very much to make peace, and come to a solution that benefits both our clans. I know how hard a road that will be, and that we'll only succeed if we work together."  
  
Clarke forces her muscles to relax and lets her instincts take over. She knows what she wants to convey, and her words don't usually fail her. "Lexa has asked you to help me, and I can't change that. But she doesn't speak for me and whatever it's worth, I'm asking you as well. I respect you and your people, and if we do create a future that benefits us both it's you and I, together, who will have accomplished it. I know it's only the beginning and it doesn't mean any of the past is forgotten, but...I hope tonight will be a first step toward that solution. Whatever form it may take."

Indra surveys her, her dark eyes moving across Clarke's face as though able to root out dishonesty by sheer force of will. "You are sure that you can make your people listen?"

"Yes." Of course Clarke isn't one hundred percent sure - her friends have a way of being difficult in the face of even the most obvious decisions. Not to mention her mother. But there isn't a hint of uncertainty in her voice. "They can be stubborn, but this is a clear choice. We either work together or we destroy each other. If they can't see that now, I'll make them."

There is a small smirk on Indra's face. "Then I will sponsor you at the feast tonight," she says, and sticks out a hand. "Consider my debt repaid."

Clarke takes her hand and smirks back. "Noted. And thank you."

Indra shrugs. "I'd rather negotiate with you than those idiots anyway," she says, leaving Clarke to wonder if Indra knows that _Skaikru's_ chancellor is in fact her mother. "What made you finally decide to do it? Tired of running?"

"I wasn't tired of it. But after being forc--" Clarke swallows the word and clears her throat. "After arriving here, I've realized I can't run forever. There will always be people who will want to use me - to use _Wanheda_ ," her teeth grit automatically on the word, "- against my people. I've been selfish long enough."

The slip doesn't go unnoticed by Indra, who raises an eyebrow. "Selfish is one way to put it," she says. "Think you're ready?"

"I don't think I've felt 'ready' since we landed here," Clarke shoves her hands in the pockets of her coat, suddenly cold again now that the sweat on her skin has cooled off. "But that hasn't stopped me from doing what needs to be done. I was just thinking the other day, about history. About how you've made it for yourselves, down here, while we were floating out of time. Thinking that history would wait for us. It's time we stop acting as if we're somehow apart from Earth, and start being a part of this world. I need to help my people see that."

"That would be appreciated," Indra says. "You've certainly changed it for us. We were happy killing each other, until you dropped out of the sky to show us we weren't alone." She pauses, and Clarke can tell by the face she makes that she's struck by something. "I suppose _Heda_ changed that history for us, before you showed up. But you haven't helped."  
  
The _Trikru_ chieftain grows very serious, and takes hold of Clarke's lower arm. Her grip is vice-like, and though Clarke doesn't feel threatened by Indra's intensity, it does hurt. "Understand, Sky Girl," she says quietly, firmly, "she has already put herself in an extremely dangerous position, forcing the clans to give up much of what we have come to expect of the world to build her Coalition. By helping your friends, she has only exposed herself more." Indra gets closer, and puts her face right in front of Clarke's. There is no bluster in her words; every one of them, she feels in her bones, is a promise. "If you get her killed, I am coming for your life next."

Clarke's jaw tenses at the threat. Her mind supplies and just as instantly throws out several retorts, each more cocky and sarcastic than the last. It's incredibly tempting to open her mouth and release them. But instead she tenses her jaw further, the effort causing her teeth to grind together. She's been honest with Indra so far, and the impulse to respond in any other way now is a defense mechanism.  
  
"I can't promise anything," Clarke says, slowly. She actually can't believe what she's about to say but as usual, has made her decision before realizing it and barrels forward. "We both know that Lexa has the power to do whatever she wants, and I can't always stop her. But if she dies when I could have prevented it..." the thought alone releases a fresh round of adrenaline in Clarke's blood. She takes a deep breath. "I will do anything to ensure that doesn't happen." Her heart rate skyrockets just from saying it out loud, but she doesn't so much as blink. She looks from one of Indra's dark, brown eyes to the other, trying to convey what she means without having to say it. "Anything. And if I fail and for some reason I am still alive myself, you can have my permission now to do as you like. Not that you'd need it."

Indra's gaze bores into her, her grip on her arm tightening even further as she scrutinizes one blue eye and then the other. They stand in several seconds of tense silence before, all at once, Indra releases her and steps back, satisfied.  
  
"I never liked you, Sky Girl," the chieftain says, calmer now that her threat has been acknowledged. "You're too clever by half, and put her and everything we worked for in jeopardy with your schemes. Gustus was right, I thought. If building the Coalition didn't kill her, you and your people would." The weight of this rebuke means that the compliment that follows - such that it is - isn't as comforting as she seems to think it is. Nevertheless, Indra says, "I'm actually a little glad to find out I was wrong.”

Clarke allows her lips to curve up in a small smile. "Well, not wrong about everything. I am quite clever. But I meant what I said. About peace, and our people. And about Lexa."

“Don't get cocky, now. Cleverness won't stop you getting put on your ass." Finally, Indra's expression breaks into a smirk to match Clarke's smile. "But being on equal footing with me might. You'll sit next to me tonight, putting you next to the Commander at the head table. Try to wear something nice."

Clarke chuckles. "I'll try to reign in any delusions of grandeur. Thank you, Indra. For hearing me out, and for tonight. Thankfully my wardrobe is out of my hands and in Elena's capable ones, or I might've been forced to go in this."

"Good. Last thing I need is for you to embarrass me."  
  
Their conversation over, Clarke is almost out the door when Indra speaks again.  
  
"Sky Girl," she says, causing her to pause. She still stands by the window, framed by the cold light of the grey winter sky, and the snow that still falls from it. "Introduce yourself as _Wanheda_ tonight. Let Clarke come later."

Clarke swallows and nods. It was what she'd known she would do all along, but hearing it said aloud makes her realize how much she was clinging to the idea that she might find some way to shed _Wanheda_.  
  
If she ever does, it won't be tonight.  
  
She leaves Indra in Lexa's chambers, sure the Commander won't mind. One would think it was really a conference room with a bed, the amount of people that seem to go in and out of it.  
  
Breakfast wasn't in the cards this morning given the late start she'd had, but she doesn't feel hungry until a few steps down the stairs, a waft of Tera's cooking hits her nose and her stomach growls in response. It occurs to Clarke that this may be the last time it won't be entirely odd for her to be in the kitchens. She follows her nose down and practically grins at the now familiar scene of people half-running, half-walking about, doing their best to keep up with Tera's barked orders as they balance mountains of plates and pans and see to boiling pots of whatever is making that delicious smell. It actually makes Clarke's heart ache a little, to realize this is the only place in this whole tower where she feels instantly at ease.

" _Idjit! Hod up! Breka dem glas, ai breka yo medo!_ "  
  
Tera looks as exasperated as ever, waving a threatening spoon at a handful of younger helpers who were rushing around with stacks of plates in their hands. When she catches sight of Clarke approaching, she begins shaking her head.  
  
"I don't have time for these foolish hands, Clarke," she says, and bustles back around one side of a long table to resume mixing whatever is in a large pot there. "And I don't have time for foolish chatter. If you will talk, you will help."

"I'm happy to help, just point me at something that needs slicing."  
  
Tera wastes no time situating Clarke in front of two piles of carrots and a pile of what she thinks might be turnips. Another of her helpers gets saddled with the onions on the other side of the table, for which Clarke is silently grateful. Her task is frequently interrupted by a question or request for help, and it takes her the better part of an hour to finish everything up. Nearly the moment she's done, Tera hands her a plate of food.  
  
The older woman responds to Clarke's surprised expression with a smile. "I know how it goes. You can eat here or take it elsewhere, just don't get underfoot."  
  
Her usual seat near the fire on the far side of the kitchen is an inviting prospect, but she isn't sure exactly what time it is and doesn't want to be late - yet again - for Elena. Instead she thanks Tera and takes the plate up to her room, eating bites of meat pie between cleaning her teeth, hair, body, and everything else she can think of. She would've washed up anyway, but she pays particular attention today. For some reason she has a feeling that Elena wouldn't appreciate her showing up for a fitting in any condition other than pristinely clean.

She has time to sit in her favorite chair for a moment and catch her breath before she hears a knock on the door. When she opens it, Elena greets her with her characteristic smile and enters, followed by a man their age and the same young girl Clarke watched light the hundreds of candles in Lexa's room. The other two are wordless, though the young man at least acknowledges her; the girl goes straight to the fireplace to pile fresh wood on the fire.  
  
"Good afternoon, Clarke," she says, and Clarke's ear catches on the use of her name. Elena always calls her _Wanheda;_ perhaps the change is for the benefit of the other two. Even now, the circle of people who know of her identity must be small. "Has your morning treated you well?"  
  
Behind her, the young man is laying out clothing at the foot of the still unused bed.

“It’s been busy, but not unpleasantly so.” Clarke eyes the clothes. “I admit, I am both excited and apprehensive to see what you came up with.”

"Unfortunately, we did not have time to make much from scratch," Elena admits, "But I think our seamstress did a nice job of altering what we had for your needs."  
  
While the girl finishes lighting the fire and collecting the lunch dishes, Elena and the man show Clarke the outfit elements they prepared. When all laid out, there is a new set of boots, leather pants, a matching corset and jacket, and a pauldron and gauntlets. All are black, accented with a deep blue. There is little question of the inspiration: somehow, they found a way to mimic the style and colors she had worn that day at the Mountain.

The comparison feels somehow right and at the same time somewhat repulsive. The scene of her greatest victory, it would seem, but most often feels like her greatest shame.  
  
“Blue seems to be a theme.” Clarke glances up at Elena’s face, etched with well-masked expectation. “I like it. People always tell me I look best in blue.”

"Your eyes are stunning, and blue - particularly this shade - brings them out," Elena agrees. "It plays well with your complexion and hair color."  
  
But just looking at the items isn't accomplishing much, so Clarke begins to try them on.  
  
The pants fit well, cut close to her body but have give enough that they're easy to move in. They're a little on the long side, and the young man takes a moment to pin the cuffs back so they can fit inside the boots, which rise to her mid-calf. They have a decidedly military theme to them, with a rigid shin guard accented in blue leather adorning the front.  
  
The corset - she has never actually seen a real life corset, but there's little question that this is one - is a little trickier, and requires Elena's help to get her buckled into. The item itself is unquestionably feminine, designed to accent the elements of her body that make it so. Black buckles on either side stripe across blue accenting underneath, and cinch the sides close to her curves. The top doesn't expose cleavage directly, as Elena had hinted at the night before, but instead angles upwards to one side. A leather section on the front and back angle up to the left, covering the left side of her collarbone and shoulder and securing to a collar at her throat, while leaving the right side of her chest and shoulder bare to the eye. A sleeve of thinner leather covers her left arm. The effect accentuates the line of her neck and shoulder, but also, Clarke is pleased to see, forces the eye to note the tone of muscle she has built there over the course of the year.  
  
"Now, the jacket was added as a consideration of the cold. It isn't a necessary part, as the pauldron can be secured to the collar without it," Elena says, and demonstrates by buckling the pauldron on. It's heavier than most things she's worn before, weighed down by the steel studs worked into the leather, but it fits securely on her left shoulder with a band that closes diagonally across her torso - following the neckline of the corset - and clasping onto the collar. "So, we can forego the jacket if you wish, and substitute instead a cloak that can be removed during the dinner. Or we can fit the pauldron on over the jacket."  
  
She helps Clarke remove the pauldron then in order to try on the jacket, which, like the corset, bears a feminine cut. The ribbing is accented with blue, following the lines of the corset, and the sleeves are cut close to her wrist so they disappear beneath the gauntlets. Those cover most of her lower arm, and end in fingerless gloves.  
  
"We'll braid back your hair," Elena says, carefully - and with Clarke's permission - pulling her hair back to demonstrate how that would affect her hairline. She stands in front of a mirror and the reflection looking back at her is powerful, feminine...and unmistakably Grounder. "And add war paint."

Clarke can't quite believe the transformation, even without braids or war paint. She hasn't given much thought to her appearance in general since arriving on Earth, and even less the past few months that she's been alone in the wilderness. But looking at herself in this outfit, it doesn't look like several disparate pieces cobbled together or a picture of a young woman trying to appear to be more than she is. It looks impressive, in many ways intimidating, and somehow more her than anything she would've come up with herself.  
  
"This is. Incredible." She shifts from foot to foot, turns to the side a few times. It may be perfect for this purpose, but Clarke doubts she'll ever be totally comfortable seeing herself this way. Nothing beats a soft henley and jeans. "I love the jacket, but I think a cloak makes sense for this evening. I'd rather avoid taking this pauldron off and putting it back on... I'm not certain I even could, by myself."

Elena smiles, clearly pleased with the response and her work. The young man flits around Clarke, folding and poking and making certain the outfit's elements fit in the right way. "Very well. Would you prefer one that is fur lined? Or just fabric?"

Clarke thinks of the cold from that morning and has to stop herself from shivering at the memory. "Fur sounds amazing. I've been too coddled by these fur blankets to pass up an offer like that."

Elena chuckles and nods. "It will be warm with the bonfire, but it'll be cold in between. A fur lining will certainly help with that; I'll have one sent up.  
  
"Would you like to begin getting ready? We can braid your hair now, or we can wait."

"May as well do it now," Clarke thinks aloud. "I'm sure you have plenty to do beyond helping me get ready for this, and it's not far from sunset in any case."

"Perfect," Elena says, and inclines her head. She speaks then to the young man in quick Trigedasleng, and after a brief exchange, he leaves the room. The two of them now alone, Elena pats the back of one of the chairs. "Have a seat."  
  
Standing behind her, Elena begins to weave a complicated pattern into her hair. As she does, she distracts Clarke from the supremely uncomfortable task of sitting still and letting others work for her by going over the details of the night: the separate small parades that would have the twelve visiting delegations winding through the streets and celebrating with the citizens of Polis, before finally joining together for the dinner. That will take place at a spot that Clarke quickly identifies as the park she had located days before, where three main tables would be gathered around a large bonfire. The chiefs all have a spot at the head table, with Lexa; the Nightbloods have their own, and the chiefs' closest delegates have the third. While Lexa, the Nightbloods, and the delegates will all take their seats as they arrive, the chiefs will await their turn to present themselves to the Commander.  
  
"That is likely the best opportunity you'll have," Elena says. It has been at least fifteen minutes, Clarke thinks, and she's still twisting her hair into place. "When all twelve have presented themselves, you fall into place as the thirteenth. Lexa will speak the same words to you, you speak your words to her, and there's a good chance someone will protest. Whether they do or not is not your concern; you already have a sponsor, and will have a seat on her honor. Then the dinner will start, a four course affair. As that finishes and the wine continues, the formality of it will diminish significantly - it always does. Music and dancing will take over for food and politics, and people will likely wander away to join festivities in other parts of the city. You'll be free to do as you like then."

“So I have a few hours to myself before then.” Clarke resists the urge to turn her head as she asks, “Do you get to enjoy the festivities as well? I hope you aren’t forced to attend to people like me all night.”

"This year I do," Elena answers, a chuckle in her voice. "Though I have served the dinner before. There will be others in my place tonight; I am lucky enough to escape once the delegations have all left the tower."

“If what you’ve done for me these past few days is any indication, you very much deserve it.”

"That is kind of you to say," Elena says, and as she does, Clarke can feel her lay a heavy braid against her neck. She comes around to her right side, picking up a section of still unbraided hair that Clarke had briefly thought forgotten. "But I am only doing what is required of me."  
  
Before long, she finishes her work. Much of Clarke’s hair remains down, laid over her shoulders in various layers of small braids on unplaited hair. But a large braid, made up of most of the hair on the top of her head, runs fishtailed down the center of her scalp. Two smaller braids on either side of her head are looped up, resting against her temples and pinned near the back of her head.  
  
Clarke has seen plenty of Grounder hair styles before, all of them composed of a complicated pattern of braids and loops - but never has she seen one repeated on another person's head. If she has to guess, this pattern that Elena has woven into her hair is now uniquely her own.

"I hardly recognize myself." Clarke turns back to Elena and smiles. "Thank you for all your help. You've made this all... much easier, for me."  
  
It's a lame way to convey the grateful feelings she has for the woman, but Elena returns her smile and nods, like she knows what Clarke means.

"It is an honor to be able to help," she assures her, and ushers her back to the chair.  
  
The last of the hour is spent designing war paint. Like the hair, the design of war paint is unique to each warrior; unlike the hair, Clarke actually has a skill set that allows her to aid in its creation, making it a surprisingly personal experience.  
  
They settle on a simple design that, at first glance, looks more utilitarian than flashy. Black is painted in thick bars across her cheekbones, stretching from her hairline to a forked end beneath the inside corner of her eye. But at the outside corner, that black bar fades upwards into streaks, revealing the design's uniqueness; while the dark color beneath her eyes would help to absorb otherwise glaring light on the battlefield, it isn't uniform all the way through. Rather than place the complexity of her paint in the design, like Lexa and Octavia do, Clarke puts hers in the paint itself, composing the dark color out of alternating stripes of blue and black. The effect is deceptively simple, for while her face isn't streaked across in fear-inducing jagged lines, the bars beneath her eyes shimmer and dance in the light. With her lighter hair and the fading gradient at her temples, it creates a decidedly ethereal look.  
  
It's in the midst of completing the war paint that the young man returns, a knock on the door heralding his arrival. He brings with him a black cloak, its exterior made of shimmering fabric while its interior is lined with animal pelts. Its collar is fringed with a grey-black fur that, she's told, was once a wolf's.  
  
"You could wear it off both shoulders, if it's heavy or bulky," Elena says as she drapes it over Clarke. "But I would suggest angling it off one shoulder, like so. It doesn't entirely swamp the outfit's effect that way."

The cloak is a bit heavy, especially considering it's surprising thinness, but not unbearably so. A tie at the neck keeps it snug on her right shoulder opposite the pauldron and it's almost exactly her height. Clarke wonders for a moment whether it somehow was tailored to fit her, but rejects the idea in the next instant as ridiculous. She and the other female chiefs aren't all that different in height, after all.  
  
Even so, despite the comfort of each individual piece of clothing, the outfit as a whole is complex - and, Clarke is sure, still more simplistic than most of the chiefs will be wearing. How any of them even attempt to do something as active as dancing in all this is impossible to imagine.  
  
Elena fusses with a few ties and fasteners here and there, and then takes an extra five minutes to touch up some aspect of Clarke's hair before finally deeming her festival-ready. Clarke has to practically insist that she doesn't need anything else, that Elena has gone above and beyond once again and she is absolutely as ready to go as she could possibly be, before Elena agrees and makes a graceful exit.  
  
As far as Clarke can tell, she still has an hour before she should make her way down to the park. She'll need another hour to get there and assess the area, figure out what vantage point is best for her to remain unseen and yet close enough to the bonfire to hear the chiefs - but until then she occupies herself with touching up the map she's created, now laid out on the table near the windows and pinned in each corner with books, and watching the city transform beneath her.

As the sun sets, the city hardly dims at all. In fact, it gets brighter. Strings of lights hang across streets and doorways, lanterns hang at nearly every corner. Even the houses seem to be glowing from within, as if the mandate were for every citizen of Polis to create as much light as possible. It means that she can make out the people on the ground even better than usual from her window, and almost all of them seem to be out of their homes. Some hang banners from buildings, others hold poles with flags and banners attached. There's even music, loud enough for Clarke to hear faintly from her room. It sounds like the music she'd heard in the square the other day, but much louder. Like whole bands of people play at once. Clarke has never seen anything like it, never witnessed so many people tightly packed into one place - let alone every one of those people enjoying themselves and celebrating. It's a heartening scene, and makes her wish she were on her usual way to explore the city and anonymously experience the festivities instead of waiting to interrupt a ritual of politicians.  
  
The hour goes by faster than she expects and she feels more than knows that she should begin to make her way toward the park. Clarke glances around the room and her eyes fall on her knife, discarded on the bed with the rest of the clothes she was wearing earlier. She hasn't gone a day since leaving Arkadia without it. Surely there will be some rule about foregoing weapons at an event like this, but she hadn't thought to ask. It takes some effort, but she forces herself to leave the room without it. She won't ruin all this planning by offending the chiefs, if indeed bringing a weapon would offend them. Besides, both Indra and Lexa invited her. She shouldn't need to defend herself.  
  
Clarke tries not to dwell on the “shouldn't” of that thought as she slips out of her room.

The halls of the tower are busy with people, the festivities of the First Fall already in full swing; workers run this way, costumed people run that way, no doubt helping the various delegations on their way out to parade in the streets. But even despite this noise, and despite her efforts to maintain a low profile, Clarke gets more than a few looks on her way out.  
  
That attention continues in the street; though most of the citizens of Polis are too wrapped up in the music and drink already being passed around, there's more than one that Clarke notices watching her as she passes. It isn't threatening, as the looks are never leering. Those she notices are merely...mystified. Surprised, even. _Who is she?_ The looks seem to ask. _She cannot be one of us._  
  
She nearly runs into the back of one of the parading delegations, she realizes, catching herself as she turns a corner to find the banners of the Plains Riders bobbing in the crowd ahead. The members of the delegation are only distinguishable by their elaborate costumes; otherwise, with the way they laugh and celebrate, the heat of their breath rising in clouds before them, they look no different from the citizens of Polis they interact with. Nevertheless, she carefully backtracks and slips away, down a series of alleys that will surely be a quieter route to the park.  
  
When at last she does arrive, there's little question of where she needs to head. Far from the streets, in a stretch of land uninhabited by revelers, a massive bonfire sends flames and light up into the sky. Silhouetted against it are three tables, just as Elena had described. One of them is clearly already occupied, a number of shapes of varying height standing out against the flames. The Nightbloods have already arrived, then, and a few are taking a moment to scout the area with a handful of guards dressed in the familiar black and red of Lexa's honor guard.  
  
The noise of the city's party is fainter here, and the lights of its lanterns don't reach much of the park's snow-covered grass. The white layer is thin and fresh enough that it muffles Clarke's steps as she moves between the scattering of trees that line the clearing, just beyond the firelight's reach - but it does leave a trail of her passing behind her.  
  
Before her, the Nightbloods' table; to its left, and perpendicular to it, an elevated table with thirteen chairs, the middle of which is recognizable as Lexa's driftwood throne. Perpendicular to that, and completing the horseshoe, a third long table waits on the other side of the bonfire. To her right, coming from the direction that the horseshoe opens into, the sound of revelry draws closer.

There's a copse of trees to her right, far enough from the light to be in the shadows but close enough that she should be able to see everything. Or at least hear it, more importantly. It's easy enough to crouch down and stay still, and she mentally thanks the Grounders for their obsession with black; her outfit may be dramatic head on, but here in the dark she should blend in with her surroundings without too much trouble.  
  
The Nightbloods seem excited more than anything, anticipation building as they murmur to each other in Trigedasleng. Ronnie chats with a younger girl and gestures dramatically - he leaps up, spins, and then animatedly falls to the ground. Clarke realizes that he's acting out the way he'd disarmed, tripped, and sent her sprawling that morning during their training session. She rolls her eyes at the display - she wasn't _that_ bad - but isn't surprised to find herself smiling.  
  
From the darkness to the right of the horseshoe, the first of the delegations to arrive appears.

They're heralded by drums and waving red and orange lanterns; the Shallow Valley clan arrives, dressed in tans and browns, whooping and stomping along with the beat of the drums. Those that enter carry streamers of the same red and orange, and circle the clearing in rhythmic step to launch them up into the bare branches of the trees. For a moment, Clarke's heart leaps into her throat - but then the tree she hides behind is satisfactorily adorned and the decorators move on to the next, none the wiser to her presence. She hasn't had the chance to see, let alone meet, the leader of _Louwoda Kliron Kru_ , a young woman named Madi; nevertheless, she doesn't think that she is among this group.  
  
As they finish their loop of the clearing, the members of Shallow Valley plant their standard behind the table on the far side. The drums do not cease their beating, and the dancers do not cease their dancing. They continue, moving in time around the bonfire. The Nightbloods stand behind their table, many participating by keeping the beat with their hands - but two black-clad figures, no more than ten years old, rush past the table to join them. They enter the dance with such familiarity and excitement that Clarke thinks the valley must, at one point, have been their home.  
  
Over the sound of drums gradually comes the sound of stringed instruments. They join in time, playing a new melody over the baseline as _Trikru_ arrives. Indra is not among those who enter the clearing, the browns and greens of their domain adorning their tattooed bodies. And so it continues - clan after clan arrives, adding their instruments and their dances to the growing celebration around the bonfire, until the clearing is raucous with sound. _Floukru_ arrives with pipes, the Glowing Forest unleashes more blue butterflies that settle in the trees, lighting them up like starry skies; some bring food and drink with them, passing bottles and platters around before settling them on tables. All pay deference to the Nightbloods, who respond with varying degrees of enthusiasm and stoicism, and all proudly add their standard to the growing line of flags behind the far table. Even the members of _Azgeda,_ painted in the spiraled white hand of their nation, interact with the others as brothers and sisters.  
  
The finale of this scene comes when a new set of drums, deeper and more sonorous than the first, sound in the darkness. The music in the clearing grows silent, and the area around the bonfire clears; bodies stand still, waiting along the edges of the horseshoe with eyes turned to the darkness. Someone picks up a cup and matches the rhythm of the drums, metal on wood a hollower echo of the first. Then more join in, with cups, fists, feet if need be, and a chant begins - one that makes use of repeated fire imagery, refrains of guiding light and cleansing heat. Everyone knows it, it seems, and even the smallest _Natblidda_ joins their voice to its musical swell.  
  
Then all at once, the darkness is broken by a blood red standard, the Commander's helm of awe emblazoned in black upon it. Soldiers in red and black march into the clearing as the drums and chant reach their crescendo, the same lyrics barked from their mouths like battlefield orders. Behind them, Lexa steps into the firelight.  
  
The delegates standing around the horseshoe's perimeter are colorful, but she is _resplendent_. A sleeveless dress of radiant red hangs from her shoulders, beaded in whorling patterns of orange and yellow that move like flame in the firelight. Snow clings to its hem, but as she enters the heat of the bonfire it melts away instantly. Across her shoulders she wears a mantle of black feathers; her hair, so often down despite its network of careful braids, is piled high atop her head, exposing in sharp relief the length of her neck and angle of her jaw. Its elegance throws the seeping, bleeding black of the warpaint around her eyes into discordant, bellicose relief. There's a pattern of black ink around one bicep too, and a larger tattoo that starts at the other elbow and disappears beneath the feathers - and only in that moment of surprise, of thinking that these tattoos are new to her, does Clarke realize she has never seen Lexa's arms bare before.  
  
The chant is all but shouted now as the Commander crosses the clearing to her throne at the head table, now flanked on either side by the flags her bannermen stuck in the ground. As she does, the drums and chant finish with one final, decisive beat, and she turns to address those gathered in the now deafening silence.  
  
" _Monin, Kongeda_."

Clarke's heartbeat pounds against her ribs and the pulse of her blood fills her ears in the silence. It doesn't feel like her panic attacks, doesn't feel like fear or anger. She's nervous, that much she can admit - it would be foolish not to be. But the beat of the drums, the chanting, the scene of ceremony and tradition but also camaraderie and merriment...it pulls at Clarke's chest, makes her feet fidget impatiently beneath her. She wants to be a part of it. Whether it's the music and dancing or something more she isn't sure, but the feeling is undeniable: it feels like she's meant to be here.  
  
Deep breaths center her, as they always do, and she forces herself to pay attention. Regardless of her feelings, she can't afford to mess this up. This time, at least, she'll have to play by the rules.

Lexa is speaking, her voice powerful and sweeping; she speaks slowly enough that Clarke can parse the general meaning of the Trigedasleng. This is a welcome, one that greets those in attendance and offers them hospitality. Long have the clans struggled through winters, alone and without assistance - but now, together, under the Coalition's banner, they need struggle no longer.  
  
At the end, she turns to the darkness on the far side of the clearing, and calls out: " _Hu kom a ai fleim?_ " _Who comes to my fire?_ Clarke thinks. Or in this case, perhaps, hearth.  
  
" _Ai laik Tomnas kom Trishanakru,_ " comes the response, and Tumnas enters the clearing. He is adorned in flowing robes, layers upon layers, in the same shade of blue Elena wore on that first day in Polis. There is something about sections of his, though - the half cape he wears at his back and stripes of the interior layers - that somehow seem to glow with the butterflies' light. His thin face wears no paint, but he has what looks like glass beads of blue and green woven into his hair. " _En ai gaf skaikrasha klir._ "  
  
And so it begins. Clarke watches as, one by one, the twelve clan leaders step into the ring of light. Some, like Tumnas, enter with grandiose words, answering Lexa with boisterous thanks for her hospitality as they lay gifts at her feet. Others, like Indra, are more subdued; in a distinctly militaristic jerkin of green and gold, a high collar mounting beneath her chin and angled shoulders, the _Trikru_ chieftain is curt in her entrance - but for all its brevity, her thanks is among the most sincere. Some faces Clarke has seen before, while others she matches to names for the first time. Eight...nine...ten...Before long, all but Helena have gone to speak their words to the Commander.

As Helena steps up and begins to speak, Clarke's feet move her forward. She walks as far to the right as she can in the shadows, listening to Helena intone the reply and add her own words. They are heartfelt and clear, imbued with the calm power the woman herself carries, and even before she's done there's a change in tone. People begin to take their seats, silence turns to amiable murmurs. But Clarke is no more than a dozen paces behind her. Helena has only just finished and taken maybe two steps back toward the far table when finally, several pairs of surprised eyes turn to the darkness.  
  
The instant Clarke steps into the firelight she can feel the guards to her right tense. She can actually hear one or more of them begin to draw a weapon, metal scraping on wood as it’s unsheathed. If they had been even marginally less consumed by the ceremony they would have noticed her before then, but now she's too close for them to do anything. She does her best to walk slowly and with purpose, but even then it takes her only seconds to approach the bonfire.  
  
Clarke half expected everything to fall apart before even getting this far, but for the moment there's only a heavy silence over the crowd. Dozens of pairs of eyes are trained on her from every angle, but she focuses on just one. Lexa looks down at her from where she sits, her eyes dark in the dim light.

Lexa's head tips to the side, and as she lets the silence stew, she makes an impressive display of calm curiosity - as though she, too, were surprised by the appearance of this thirteenth figure. To her right Indra looks on impassively, dark eyes watching from beneath her warpaint. To Lexa's left, Helena - the side of her face adorned by swirling, wave-like spirals of blue paint - leans forward over the back of her chair. She hasn't had the chance to sit yet, and stands peering at Clarke as though she can't quite decide if it's actually her.  
  
Her palms itch, and she barely has the wherewithal to stop her fists from clenching.  
  
"You there," Lexa says, eyes holding Clarke's gaze and drawing her inexorably closer. In the firelight, the helm of awe on her forehead glints like molten metal. " _Hu kom a ai fleim?"_

Clarke inhales. In this second, she's still just Clarke. Able to hide in plain sight, capable of moving through the world and building relationships without the weight of her title on her shoulders. Her people need her and the power that title wields. The people at Mount Weather deserve to be remembered, to have died for a cause, even if it wasn't of their choosing. It's only her who needs her to be just Clarke, and in this moment she still is.  
  
And then she exhales.  
  
" _Ai laik Wanheda kom Skaikru. En ai gaf skaikrasha klir._ "

There is silence. For just a moment, she catches sight of familiar faces in hyper detail - the widening of Helena's eyes, the slight cock of a smirk on Indra's face, the twisted fury growing on Nia's. There's a clatter to her left, and Clarke glances over to see that Ronnie has dropped his cup, his mouth hanging wide open in surprise. No one moves to stop water from soaking the table. Lexa's lips tip upwards in the smallest of smiles.  
  
And then someone hits play on the video screen, and the scene starts moving again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Costume changes! Parties! Cliff hangers, oh my!
> 
> What even are clothing terms? We're queer women - we wear the same five t-shirts and fifty-two flannels day in and day out. Just trust us, they look hot.
> 
> Also, Madi got reassigned ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	8. You Look Nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Alcohol, inebriation

Grounders stand, make exclamations of surprise, gesture wildly at each other - and everywhere, from every side, the name _Wanheda_ jumps from their lips. Nia, at the far right hand side of the high table, slams her fist against wood and stands.  
  
"This is an outrage!" she declares, and her voice brings silence to the commotion. Just as quickly as they turned to Clarke, all eyes are on her. " _Skaikru_ insults us with this invasion. None are allowed at the table who are not members of the Coalition!"  
  
"Unless they have a sponsor," Indra answers. Clarke can almost feel the attention of those gathered shift to the _Trikru_ leader, who looks entirely unimpressed by the proceedings. She stands, her back straight and head held high to say, "As _Trikru's_ chief and a member of the Coalition, I will speak on behalf of _Wanheda_ , _Klark kom_ _Skaikru_ , and ask the Commander that she be allowed a seat at the table."  
  
The murmuring to either side of Clarke resumes. Slowly, Helena sinks into her seat. A smile grows on her lips.  
  
"Is that true, Indra of _Trikru?"_ Lexa asks over the small din. "Do you speak for this member of _Skaikru_ , and assure us of her peaceful intentions this evening?"  
  
"I do, Commander," Indra answers. Nia's hands wrap around the edge of the table, and Clarke can tell even from here that she grips it hard. Her fury is barely concealed behind gritted teeth. " _Wanheda_ comes as a representative of her people, not as an enemy of ours."  
  
The murmuring subsides again as all eyes turn to Lexa, all waiting to see her judgement. Lexa's eyes return to Clarke's, and even though Clarke knows what the response will be - at least, knows what the _promised_ response would be - she holds her breath. At last, the Commander speaks.  
  
"Very well," she says, and it is hard to find the soft Lexa of the night before in her voice. "On your honor, Indra, as a friend of the Coalition, she will have a seat with us. If she breaks our covenant or harms our people, on your head be the consequences."  
  
"That is a burden I will accept, Commander."  
  
And with that, the tension is broken. A crow goes up from her left, and Clarke looks to see that Ronnie has jumped to his feet, his fists stuck up in the air. For a moment he catches himself, and looks abashed; then Helena, grinning and visibly impressed, begins to applaud. Others follow suit, and all but the Queen of _Azgeda_ welcome _Wanheda_.

In fact it takes approximately thirty seconds for a fourteenth chair to be situated between Lexa and Indra, but Clarke feels every one of them. Relief, not yet seeped into her unrelentingly tense muscles, washes over her as she walks slowly up to Indra. Beyond the words Elena had taught her, she has no idea what the proper thing to do in this situation would be. So she does as her instincts tell her, as usual.  
  
Clarke bows her head toward Indra, a respectful acknowledgment of the risk she’s taken by sponsoring her. “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” she says, not loud enough for all in attendance to hear but not a whisper either.  
  
Indra nods, that small smirk still shamelessly etched on her face. Clarke imagines she was just as pleased to put a new thorn in Nia’s side as Helena would be - perhaps more.

She rounds the table just as her place setting all but magically appears. In the process she catches sight of Ronnie, who is positively beaming at her from the Nightbloods’ table, now a few yards away from the seat she's offered.  
  
"Nicely done, Sky Girl," Indra says as she sits. Up close, Clarke can get a better look at her, at the feather that hangs from her ear, and the leaf like pattern sewn into her high collared jerkin. She doesn't exactly look at Clarke, but eyes her without turning her head. "I thought for sure you'd make me look like an idiot."

“I suppose there’s still time.” Clarke catches Ronnie’s eyes again, still wide with surprise and excitement, and winks at him. That impossibly infectious smile grows even wider, threatening to break through the side of his face and causing the smallest of smiles to tug at Clarke’s mouth. “But I will do my best to avoid it.”

"You'd better," Indra says, and raises her glass to her before taking a drink from it.  
  
"It was quite the surprise entrance, Clarke of the Sky People," Lexa says from Clarke's other side, and there's little in her expression to tell that she was in on the whole thing. But, from beneath her war paint, the glimmer of amusement peeks out. "I am glad to see you here."  
  
From Lexa's other side, Helena snorts. "Surprise, my ass," Clarke hears her mutter.

“Helena of _Floukru_. Your reputation precedes you. I am honored to meet you, officially.” Despite any remaining nerves, Clarke can’t quite keep the smile Ronnie had put on her face out of her voice. “I hope I will have earned your friendship as well, by the end of this evening.”

"Did you see Nia's face?" Helena says, in that same tone. "You're my best friend already."  
  
"Helena," Lexa warns, and the other woman sighs. She sticks her head out around Lexa so she can see Clarke clearly, and offers a smile.  
  
"It is good to meet you too, Clarke. Or should I say, good to meet you officially, _Wanheda,_ " Helena says. Lexa just sighs. "You both really had me going there."  
  
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Lexa sniffs.

“No, I imagine not,” Clarke hums. The Commander looks at her with that same impassive gaze, but her eyes look light and expressive again. Bright green flecks dance in her irises in the firelight, adding to the otherworldly atmosphere her presence creates. Clarke was too focused earlier on the task at hand to register much more than surprise at the Commander’s outfit but now that she’s here, her attention entirely on Lexa...the beauty of the other woman takes her breath away.  
  
Lexa’s eyes are suddenly expectant. Clarke blinks a few times, realizing she must’ve been silent for a beat too long. “It’s good to see you...Commander.”

Though Lexa's smile is small, it is undeniably there. But Helena is still watching, and so has surely seen this non-verbal exchange.  
  
"Take your cloak off, Clarke," she says, her voice comically flat. Her eyes flick to Lexa as servants appear to lay out the first set of plates. "Stay a while."

Clarke perks an eyebrow at her and tugs at her cloak's tie. As it slips from her shoulder she feels a flash of cold, but it’s quickly tempered by the heat of the fire. She drapes it over the back of her chair and leans forward, elbow on the table, to direct her raised eyebrow at Helena. “Better?”

Lexa's eyes fixate somewhere around Clarke's bare shoulder, and her jaw tightens as she gulps. Helena snickers. "Much, yes."  
  
As the first course finishes being served and the cups are refilled, Lexa blinks rapidly and clears her throat. The mantle of Commander settles back over her feather-clad shoulders and she stands, lifting her cup. She begins to give a toast - to all those gathered, to all those that they serve and protect. Mostly Clarke looks at her, and at the faces that, though attentive to the Commander, seem to inevitably shift back towards Clarke in different degrees of excitement and trepidation.

When she finishes, dinner starts in earnest. Across the four courses, each more delicious than the last, Clarke fields questions from those closest to her. Conversation between her and the few she knows is limited for obvious reasons, but others - Jameson from the Delphi clan, a stoic man on the other side of Indra, and Tumnas, on the other side of Helena - introduce themselves as well. By the fourth course, the wine has been flowing freely, and the night edges further from ‘dinner’ and closer to ‘party.’  
  
The music begins again just as the last plates are being cleared. Lexa is distracted with something Helena is saying when Tumnas makes his move; apparently fed up with having to speak halfway down the table, he gets up and comes to stand at the side of Clarke's chair.  
  
" _Wanheda,_ it really has been such an honor to meet you," he says, a little too enthusiastically. The wine has clearly been good to him, and he's a little unsteady on his feet. "Have I mentioned this already? The opportunity to dine with you - truly, I am a lucky man."

Clarke, on the other hand, has not been drinking much. She’s had two glasses of wine, exactly as much as the other night - that’s the extent of her own wine tolerance that she understands, and until these politicians are done with her, she doesn’t intend to push it. At least, that's the plan.  
  
“The feeling is mutual, Tumnas. I’m glad we’ve had a chance to meet.” This man is the type charmed through flattery, and it takes no more than a moment for a useful thought to surface. She remembers Ronnie’s reaction to the butterflies, his wild gesticulations as they landed on him and concern that they would devour him whole. A smile comes easily at the memory and she fingers the lapel of his luminescent jacket with curiosity. “This is beautiful. I’ve heard animals appear to glow in your forest, is that true?”

"They do not only _appear_ to glow, _Wanheda,_ they _do!"_ He says, and waves a hand upwards towards the tree branches above them. Between the streamers and beyond the firelight, little blue lights still float between the limbs of the trees. "They are bioluminescent, you see, and our wonderful artisans have perfected a way to use them to create this fabric..."  
  
Somewhere in the fifth minute of Tumnas' explanation of this supposedly extremely secret technique, Clarke meets Helena's eyes, who just shrugs. It's in that moment of asking her why, _why_ has Helena condemned her to this fate, that she hears her name spoken from the other side of the table.  
  
"Clarke?"  
  
It's Ronnie. Thank the heavens it's Ronnie, and he's standing there with a smile that's a little more hesitant than it usually is. When their eyes meet he looks between her and Tumnas, and points over his own shoulder with a thumb. "Wanna dance?"  
  
Beyond, the area around the fire is alive with dancers once more. Tumnas makes a surprisingly petulant sound for someone so...grown.  
  
“ _I_ was going to ask you to dance!"

Clarke chuckles, both with real amusement and equally real relief. “Fair is fair, he did ask first.”  
  
Tumnas gives a somewhat off kilter and begrudging half bow and declares something about finding her later. Clarke takes Ronnie’s hand and lets him lead her away.  
  
“I thought I was going to be the one to save _you!”_ She does her best to mimic Ronnie's trademark smile, hoping it will prove half as infectious as his. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you about all of this ahead of time, Ronnie - and I’m sorry in advance for having absolutely no idea how to dance.”

"No, it's okay! We don't actually have to dance, I know that might be embarrassing. Which I guess you have to worry about now," he says with a little grin. He leads her over to the opposite side of the fire, putting distance between them and the dreaded politicians. "Since, you know. You're _Wanheda,_ and everything."  
  
Ronnie doesn't wear any face paint - nor, for that matter, do any of the Nightbloods. They do all wear the same outfit, however: a more formal version of their usual all black uniform. This one consists of a soft black shirt with a tied collar tucked into matching pants, polished boots, and a starchy uniform jacket crossed by a leather belt that looks almost like a sash. His hair is smoothed carefully into place, his unruly bangs tamed into a single braid along the side of his head. At his belt is a cruciform dagger; aside from the guards, the Nightbloods are the only ones she's seen who are armed.

Clarke honestly can’t help herself - if she could, she would almost certainly have thought better of it. As it is, she scoffs and raises her eyebrows at Ronnie. “You think just because someone gave me that title I’m any different from the person you’ve been training every morning? You haven’t backed down from a challenge yet that I’ve seen, and teaching me to dance can’t be harder than teaching me to use a sword.”

"Wha - but you're _Wanheda!"_ He says. "Which, also, you didn't tell me before we started training!"

“I said I was sorry!” Clarke responds louder than she intends and actively lowers her voice as she says, “I wanted to tell you. But it wasn’t only me that I had to think of. And I admit, I really enjoyed spending time with you as myself. Not as _Wanheda,_ but just as Clarke. Maybe I was hesitant to tell you because I didn’t want to ruin that.”

"It's okay, it's okay. I'm not really mad, I'm just...embarrassed, I guess? Here I was, pretending to teach _the_ _Wanheda_ how to fight, and I didn't even...  
  
"Anyway." He does look a little pink around the ears, but his smile appears in short order. "You promised to save me from all of that,” he waves in the direction of the Nightblood table, where Tumnas is now chatting up one of the older _Natbliddas_. "And this is a good way to do that. Wanna actually dance?"

“You and I both know _the_ _Wanheda_ was no good at fighting before she met you.” Clarke nudges him forward, half regretting it already as she says, “I do owe you, and I promised, so. Lead the way, Ronnie.”

He doesn't take her far, still conscious of the space between them and the high table. The spot they situate in is ultimately visible by some who sit there, but it is also out of the way of other, more experienced dancers. There, he counts out the beats as he first demonstrates the choreographed actions, and then more slowly walks through each step with her.  
  
It doesn't go as badly as she might have initially imagined. The first song ends before she can really get ahold of the pattern of the associated dance, but Ronnie is familiar with the next one that starts up, too.  
  
"This one is from the Broadleaf clan," he says, a grin on his face as he starts to demonstrate. The moves here are faster to pick up, and repeated more often; Clarke gets the sense that this is a dance intended for everyone - not just those who are skilled dancers - and is grateful for it. Before long, she's hopping and moving along next to Ronnie, at the outer edge of a dancing area that has swelled with participants.

The music reminds Clarke of the other day in the square - before she'd had a panic attack and ran away - and just a few hours ago as the delegations sang the clan chiefs into the ceremony. The way it gets into her blood and her heart seems to adjust to beat in time with it. It's loud and joyful and the drums are so close that they practically make the ground shake. There was music on the Ark, and occasionally dancing, but never like this.  
  
Clarke laughs breathlessly as the music once again comes to a halt. "I liked that one! I almost had it by the end, don't you think?" She waggles her eyebrows at Ronnie in a mock show of seriousness, knowing she'd hardly mastered it but daring him to say so.

"You are incredible, Clarke," Ronnie laughs. He too is breathless, his face red from the heat of the fire and the exertion, the shirt of his uniform now untucked from his pants and hanging out past the hem of his jacket.  
  
It's so easy to think of Ronnie as just another carefree kid but, somehow, this juxtaposition of a grinning, disheveled twelve year old boy with his military uniform reminds her of his purpose. That because of the blood in his veins, he may be called on at any time to lead - or worse, to die. The thought brings her heart rate down a little, her smile tempering as the infectious joy of the moment is fleetingly held at bay.  
  
"You probably should get some lessons before the next festival though," he's saying, blithely unaware of what's going on in her head. "I bet you'd be really good at the _Gouthru,_ but that can be kinda hard to learn on the...spot..."  
  
His voice drifts off for a moment as the music begins again, this time with more reeds and wind in the mix. As he recognizes it, his shoulders slump. "Aww, man," he grumbles.

Clarke frowns, both at her own thoughts and Ronnie's reaction. "What's wrong? Not a fan of wind instruments?"

"No, they're fine." He kicks at the grass. There had been snow here before the bonfire, but the heat of the towering flames melted a radius beyond even the horseshoe of tables; the many feet of the dancers have been slowly turning the wet grass beneath into mud. "I just don't know this one."

"That's because it requires a partner."

Clarke turns to find Helena approaching. The outfit she wears is, somewhat surprisingly, less feminine than what Clarke has previously seen her in. A pair of pants and a long sleeved shirt - made of the same light, billowing sheer material - clad her limbs, rippling like waves in the light breeze that fans the bonfire’s flames. A fine, brown leather cuirass sits atop that shirt, enclosing her torso in a sort of armor Clarke has never seen on a Grounder before. Even Lexa's armor looks like it's cobbled together half the time, but Helena's cuirass looks to be fashioned entirely of the same piece of gleaming leather. It's stamped with the sigil of _Floukru_ right above her collarbone and the matching pauldrons that sit on either shoulder are intricately tooled with a pattern of waves and fish. Her hair is braided back, decorated with beads and covered by a blue bandana; earrings, bigger than those Clarke saw the other night, hang past her jaw in glittering rows and chandeliers, while matching bracelets jangle at her wrists. Though she wears kohl on her eyes and has painted her lips as before, it's the blue war paint on the left side of her face that draws the most attention.

She extends a hand to Clarke, and tips her head towards others who have paired off around the fire. "Shall we?"

Clarke looks to Ronnie, attempting in even a small way to give deference to her current partner - even in the presence of another chief. "Do you mind, Ronnie?"

He shakes his head vigorously. "Of course not," he says, but disappointment is clear in his voice.

"I'll be back," Clarke quickly reassures him, and he instantly perks up. It's amazing to her how easy it is to bring a smile back to his face - and more, how attached to seeing that smile she's become. "Don't tire yourself out too much to dance with me again later."

Ronnie claps a fist over his heart and inclines his head. " _Sha, Wanheda!"_

Helena smiles as she takes her hand and leads Clarke out to the center of the whirling mass of bodies. Though very much in the heat of things, with the fire so close and others moving so vigorously, Clarke actually feels less exposed here than she did at the edge of it all. Surely more people would be watching the dancers in the center than the stragglers on the side, but she gets the sense that any who do won't be able to see them for long. There are simply too many people.

Without a word Helena turns to face her, and takes hold of Clarke's other hand as well. She starts slow, stretching her arms out to either side in a motion that pulls Clarke close at the same time. Their left shoulders touch, their bodies aligned but facing opposite directions - then they step back, and repeat the motion on the other side. They aren't quite on beat, and others around them are moving much faster, but Helena seems not to care.

"That's a cute boyfriend you have there," she says, releasing one of Clarke's hands to take a slow turn in place. Though an initiate, Clarke gets the sense that this should be a mirrored step.

"He is pretty cute," Clarke agrees, and turns as well. She's grateful that Helena is moving slowly enough that she can take a moment to identify what the next step should be. Despite the more flowing movements, it's not as easy as it looks. "But I think he may be a little young for me." Helena pulls her back from the turn and gently guides her hand behind her head, following the length of Clarke's arm down before taking both her hands again.

"And he's a _Nightblood_ ," Helena sniffs, but it's clear that she's teasing. "You can do better."

There's another set of steps, in which they press their palms together and circle for a count before reversing, but beyond that the dance just repeats. Around them others add flourishes that build on the same counts, but Helena is content to just go through them again with Clarke, the movements becoming more familiar each time.

Clarke suspects that there's reason why she stepped in for this dance in particular, as the close proximity makes it easier to talk unnoticed. It also means that, even amidst the smells of food and fire, she's awash in something much more floral and heady each time Helena comes close.

"You know," the chieftain says, after the second round begins. The sound of her earrings clink softly in Clarke's ear as their shoulders touch again, faintly audible over the sound of the music. "I almost had the two of you. All the talk of coming from far away, accidentally becoming a leader, knowing about Costia...Lexa has told me so many things about this mysterious young leader of _Skaikru,_ but never that her name was Clarke."  
  
“I’m surprised she spoke about me at all, honestly.” They move close together and for a moment Clarke’s senses are consumed by that smell again - something familiar, yet not entirely. Flowers she’s likely never seen but can easily imagine.

“Really?” Helena asks, her flat tone telling Clarke she doesn’t believe that at all. Never mind that it’s the truth. “ _Skaikru_ has been a very...localized problem, it’s true, but news of you has reached the four corners of the Coalition. An entirely new clan, dropping from the sky with weapons and machines like the Mountain’s, helmed by a woman who is a match even for our illustrious Commander?” A conspiratorial smirk turns Helena’s lips - but Clarke isn’t sure who it is Helena is conspiring _with_. It doesn’t feel like it’s her. “How could she not speak of you?”  
  
Clarke shrugs, but the smirk on Helena’s face is mirrored on her own. “Well when you put it like that, I guess I should be thanking Lexa for not blowing my cover long ago. It gave me a chance to meet you as myself, at least. You are one of the few people here who know me as anything other than _Wanheda._ ”

“Mm. In that case, I am honored to have had the opportunity.” As they spin away from each other again, Clarke feels the heat of the bonfire wash across her bare shoulder and arm, her corset’s collar pulling as she lifts her other arm over her head. She catches a brief glimpse of the high table, where the Commander is still holding court - and sees Lexa turn away from her conversation, just for a moment, to spot them amidst the crowd of dancers. When they come together again, Helena doesn’t seem to have noticed. “Though perhaps I’ll say that _you_ sought me out, knowing how amazing and important and gorgeous I am, rather than it being mere happenstance.”

“Smart,” Clarke murmurs, her mind only half present. She blinks a few times to clear her head and refocuses on Helena.  
  
“That would put the power in your hands,” she clarifies, louder and clearer this time, as she manages to twirl Helena around without tripping over her own feet, “and give you some time to reserve judgment about whether or not you trust me. If you’re still unsure whether we are allies, that is.”

“Pfft. Allies.” Helena rolls her eyes in time with her turn, such that Clarke can see the whole expression even though her back is to her for a moment. “Lexa trusts you, that much I know. And Nia hates that you’re here, which only helps. Assuming you don’t turn out to be completely insufferable, I think we’ll get along just fine.”  
  
“Well I’d love for us to get along more than ‘just fine,’” Clarke manages to wink mid-step turn, which feels like an impressive feat - not that she’d say as much out loud, “but I’ll take it for now. Besides, I’m sure it depends on your point of view. Nia will certainly find me insufferable, if she ever deigns to speak to me.”

“Oh, she will. Speak to you, I mean,” Helena answers lowly. “She never passes up an opportunity to size up an opponent - and intimidate them, if she can. Be prepared for that. I doubt you’ll escape tonight without at least one conversation, and she’ll do her best to cow you. Don’t let her.”  
  
Clarke raises an eyebrow and the smirk returns to her lips. “I thought you said Lexa told you about me.”

Helena opens her mouth to respond, stops, then presses her lips together again and furrows her brows. Then, a glint of amusement in her eyes, her lips pull back in a wicked grin. “I like you, _Klark kom Skaikru_ ,” she says. “Lexa chose well - I’ll have to let her know.”  
  
In what way, exactly, Lexa has chosen well, Clarke can only guess. Particularly since any opportunity to ask Helena for clarification disappears the moment the song ends. A whirl of darker blue appears in Clarke’s periphery and a warm hand clasps her shoulder.  
  
"Helena! _Wanheda!_ Two of my favorite people, both in one place." In the maybe thirty minutes since Clarke left him, Tumnas has only gotten more inebriated. He has a hand on Helena's shoulder as well, but she can feel his weight listing gradually in her direction as a new song begins. "Oh, and it's a round! My favorite. Did you know, there was one year that I danced the round and--"  
  
"You know, Tumnas, this is one of my favorite stories of yours," Helena interrupts, shooting a grin at Clarke. She puts a hand on his wrist, and his weight starts shifting in her direction instead. "What do you say we go get another cup to share while you tell it?"  
  
"Oh, yes," he says somewhat absently. At the mention of cups, his head perks up and scans for an attendant. "This would pair fantastically with more wine..."

Clarke mouths a “thank you” in Helena’s direction as they turn to go. The other woman winks and mouths what looks like “you owe me one” as she half drags Tumnas away. She shakes her head at the pair of them, amused despite herself. Tumnas may be a little insufferable, but he’s also entertaining. And the opposite of threatening, which is a welcome reprieve.  
  
Wine actually sounds good to Clarke, now that the thought is in her head. She’s thirsty, but it doesn’t appear that water will be as easy to come by as wine. It is a party, after all. It’s easy enough to grab a cup from attendants milling around and find a spot off to the side of the ever-growing group of dancers. Ronnie is a little ways off, dancing with one of the other Nightblood boys and waving another young woman over. She doesn’t interrupt, content to catch her breath and have a moment to herself.

Across the way, she watches Helena attempt to spill Tumnas into a chair, only for him to elect to sit on the ground. She takes a seat on the edge of the table beside him, and pours him something that definitely looks more like water than wine and hands it to him. He looks directly into the cup but doesn't seem to notice, and begins drinking it down anyway.  
  
The ease of that scene fades as her eyes find Nia. She is still at her place at the high table, her chair facing sideways so that she can hold court with two other chiefs. One is young, and Clarke imagines that it must be Madi; the other she recognizes as the leader of the Rock Line clan. Perhaps somewhat off her expected brand, Nia has clothed herself in a black gown for the evening, the gleaming beads - and, Clarke suspects, real gemstones - giving the effect of a snowfall against a dark night sky.  
  
Not wanting to be caught watching, her eyes move on to find that Indra and Jameson haven't moved far either, still standing at their places at the high table - though now, they're in front of it. He looks at home beside her, both having elected to wear something Spartan - more simple and militaristic than the flamboyant displays of other chiefs. They both hold cups in their hands, drinking intermittently as they chat.

The other chiefs are difficult to spot in the melee; one joins Tumnas on the ground, patting him on the back like a brother, while another makes an appearance as a dance leads her around the fire. It's as she follows her movements that she spots a face she hadn't seen earlier that night: the man in purple stands at one corner of the horseshoe, watching all that goes on impassively. She frowns, and wracks her brain. Is it possible that he's been here this whole time, and she didn't notice? Or has he joined just now? The man has been a ghost of Clarke's days here, seemingly present and absent at the same time.

She's distracted from her observation by the sound of footsteps, and turns to find Lexa approaching. The Commander has finally been able to leave her throne, it seems.  
  
If she had intended to simply "appear" at Clarke's elbow as she often does, her plans have been foiled; but she does not look perturbed by it. Away from the table, Clarke is struck anew by the effect of her outfit - as Lexa is by hers, it seems, as she catches the other woman's eyes drifting over her.

She settles in beside Clarke, leaning slightly on the table behind them with her cup in her hand. For a moment, there is companionable - if precipitous - silence as they both watch the dancers.  
  
"War paint suits you," Lexa says eventually, looking at Clarke from the corner of her eye.

“I’m not a warrior.” Lexa’s eyes have that effect again - of dancing green light. “Not like you. But I’ll take the compliment.”

"Not like me, perhaps," she acknowledges with the tip of a shoulder - a small shrug. "But it was meant as one."

Lexa falls silent again, and the beat of the drums and song of the strings take over. Another sip from her cup, another beat of silence. Then, "You look nice tonight."

“Thanks, I was really going for nice. With the choker and corset and black theme.”

Lexa just stares at her, adorable confusion etched across her face. Clarke chuckles. “I’m sorry, I’m teasing. I meant thank you. You, on the other hand. You look...radiant.” Clarke sips the wine in her hand, surprised to find that she’s nearly done with it. It’s clearly loosening her tongue - she doesn’t even feel embarrassed. “I never thought I’d see you in a dress.”

“They are terribly impractical,” Lexa says, and looks down at her own outfit. Her free hand takes a section of her skirt and swishes it from side to side, as though to make a point. “When styled this way, anyway. There is so rarely occasion to wear such beautiful things.” 

She stops swishing her skirt but doesn’t look up. Her eyes remain on the ground, her brow furrowed ever so slightly, and her lips press into a thin line. “‘Radiant’ is better than ‘nice.’”

Clarke chuckles at the look on Lexa’s face. It’s almost petulant, somehow. “I didn’t mean to make this into a contest, you know.”

“No, no, of course not,” Lexa answers, and the crease in her brow deepens. She closes her eyes for a moment and lifts her cup to her lips a little too fast; she has to clear her throat after she drinks. “How have you found the festival so far? I noticed that you have taken to dancing quite quickly.”  
  
“Well, with Ronnie’s help,” Clarke shrugs, which proves more difficult than anticipated with the pauldron still strapped to her shoulder. Lexa’s dress may be impractical for a warrior, but it’s far more practical for this event than armor. “He’s a good teacher. Besides, he’s always so positive and… I don’t know, full of energy. It’s infectious.”

Lexa nods, and her eyes finally return to Clarke’s. “He speaks highly of you, as well. It seems the two of you have grown quite close.”

“I think so,” Clarke agrees, and feels a smile pull unbidden across her face just thinking about Ronnie. “I feel like I can just be myself when I’m with him. I’m sure he makes everyone feel that way, but feeling like myself has been a rare thing lately.”  
  
The Nightblood in question jumps into view across the dance floor - literally jumps, and spins a younger Nightblood dramatically in three rapid circles. “He forgave me so fast, too,” Clarke muses, her eyes lingering on the pair as they giggle simultaneously and step in sync back into the fray and out of sight.

She can feel Lexa’s eyes on her. “You sound surprised.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t be,” Clarke forces herself to meet Lexa’s green eyes, now bright with curiosity as well as firelight. “I think I’ve been mentally preparing for the apologies I owe my friends, when I see them again. I can’t imagine that will go over well. Maybe I let my expectations for those conversations color my expectations for this one.”

The curiosity darkens, now satisfied by her answer and replaced with something else. Guilt, perhaps? It would be so very like Lexa to take _Skaikru's_ reactions to Clarke's choices as something she's responsible for.

And yet, there's a part of Clarke that isn't terribly upset about the prospect of Lexa wallowing in her perceived responsibility. None of this would have happened if she hadn't abandoned her at the Mountain, after all.

But Lexa nods in response even as her expression sobers. "I realize that what you have done this evening will have repercussions. And that many of them will be difficult to field." She steadily holds Clarke's gaze as she says, "I am grateful that you chose to do it anyway."

“I am, at least for the moment, grateful that you convinced me. Ask me again tomorrow and it may be a different story.” 

Clarke tears her eyes away with some effort. Thankfully there’s another cask of wine conveniently open on the table behind them, which is the perfect excuse to avert her eyes from Lexa’s intense gaze and refill her cup. She can’t be blamed if, even after everything, the cut of Lexa’s dress and the way it accentuates her collarbone and shoulders does something…

“In any case,” she cuts off her own thoughts, “at least I know how to dance now. That’s something I’d only heard about before coming to Earth.” Clarke holds another new, full cup out to Lexa. “I have also heard, from a very reliable source, that you _don’t_ dance. Is that true?”

Lexa eyes the cup...and then eyes Clarke. She ultimately takes it from her but doesn't drink, merely narrows her eyes ever so slightly - as though she already suspects what Clarke is up to. "It is true," she answers carefully.

“Well, is that because you don’t enjoy it? Is it considered undignified for a Commander?” Clarke wonders aloud. She’s trying to goad Lexa, and they both know it - but for some reason, whether it’s the wine or something else, Clarke doesn’t bother editing herself. “Could it be that you’re secretly not very good at it?”

Whatever modicum of stoicism Lexa has left flees in that moment; she breaks into a smile, and _chuckles_. "This will not work, Clarke," she says, and lifts her refilled cup to drink - but she holds Clarke's gaze, and there's little question that she's charmed.

“What won’t work?” Clarke shrugs and schools her expression into a show of mock innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Lexa makes an amused sound around the rim of her cup, and sets it down on the table behind them when she finishes drinking. "You will not convince me to dance," she says, and her smile lingers. "Though I appreciate the valiant effort."

“Oh well,” Clarke sighs dramatically, “I guess it’s just me and Ronnie then. And Helena, apparently.”

"Ah, Helena," Lexa sighs and shakes her head. "I hope she hasn't frightened you off. She is incorrigible."

“Frightened me off? Quite the opposite actually, I’ve been enjoying her! It’s been a while since I’ve met someone who’s…” Clarke struggles to find the words, then starts again and amends, “We seem to be similar in some ways. Like that you’d probably describe us both as ‘incorrigible.’”

That makes Lexa's smile crack just a little bit wider. "I choose to remain agnostic about that assessment," she says, and turns her eyes on the dancers once more. When Clarke follows her gaze, she finds that the man in purple has moved off the sidelines and is currently reprimanding one of the younger Nightbloods. Probably for having too much fun at this party.

“Who is that?” Clarke asks, and nods at the man.

"That's Titus," Lexa answers. Her eyes linger on him for a moment - and as Clarke watches him, she sees him turn his attention toward the two of them. As if he could somehow hear Lexa say his name through the music and across the crowd. "He is a _Fleimkepa_ \- a Flamekeeper. He raised a number of the Nightbloods in my conclave, including myself. And he continues to be my advisor, even now."

“Mmm. You know,” Clarke meets his - Titus’s - eyes and can practically feel the small frown her attention paints on his face. “I don’t think he likes me all that much.”

"He...is cautious," Lexa says, and it feels very much like confirmation. "As a Flamekeeper, he is steeped in the old ways. He worries about what this much change will bring. But he means well."

“If his concern is for you, I can hardly blame him for disliking me.” Clarke sets her still largely full cup down with a sigh, her mind suddenly preoccupied. Apparently not even wine and dancing can distract her from reality for long. “I haven’t exactly proven myself lucky to keep around.”

"Oh, I have given him plenty of reason to worry before you and your people arrived," Lexa hums, for the moment oblivious to Clarke’s thoughts. A grin comes over her face as she speaks, as if those memories are playing out behind her eyes. "But he gets tired of yelling at me. You are an easier target to fix his anxiety on, I imagine.

"I would not worry about him too much. At the end of the day, he wants the same things we want."

Clarke cocks her head to the side, far more entertaining images entering her mind at the idea of this man yelling at a small Lexa. “You know, I could almost imagine you as a child. Doing something absolutely against the rules and smiling like that when he asked you if you had anything to do with it.”

Lexa begins to shake her head again, but the grin remains. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she says, and looks away - as though that would protect her innocence.

“I am confident I can convince Helena to tell me all kinds of...” Clarke trails off when she sees a few flecks of white, puffy and sparkling, fall on the black feathers on Lexa’s shoulder. She looks up and sees the beginning of another snow flurry. These flakes are bigger than the ones she’d seen the other day and fall in slow, swaying blankets on the festivities.

"Still think you're unlucky?" she teases.

Snow gathers quickly on Lexa’s feathered shoulders and dusts the hair piled on her head. It only adds to the otherworldliness of her appearance.  
  
“Not if snow makes you happy,” Clarke says.

"Some will be annoyed by it. And it does come with its own set of dangers," she says. Her eyes pass over Clarke's hair, where there is surely snow gathering as well. "But I find it lovely."  
  
They're not the only ones to have noticed the snow fall. A shout goes out from someone at the far table, and the music and dancing both pause in quick succession. All eyes and faces turn upwards to see the falling snow, a spectacle that sends a ripple of delight through the bodies gathered. A raucous cheer follows shortly thereafter, and the party begins again in earnest. Lexa sees this happen, and inclines her head.  
  
"I should go," she says, and there is something almost like guilt in her voice. "Before it becomes too late."

"Too late for what?"

"To get a decent amount of rest," Lexa answers wryly. "Others may sleep late tomorrow, but there is still much to be done."

"I've been so focused on tonight, it didn't occur to me to think past it," Clarke admits. "Do you have specific duties tomorrow, or is it the usual ‘being the leader of all’ business?"

"Many of the delegations will be departing after tonight, for fear of getting caught in the snow," Lexa answers, purposely skating by the 'leader of all' comment. "Most will have a final word to say or matters to solve before they do. I cannot afford to be...indisposed."

Clarke nods. "Fair enough. And I did already keep you up late enough last night, it would be unfair of me to do so again." She shivers a little, finally feeling the cold of the snow on her bare shoulder. "I should think about what that means for me, now that the festival is over. I can't exactly run away to the mountains again, but beyond that I haven't given it much thought."

"I wouldn't worry about that tonight," Lexa says, and turns fully to face her. "That is something that we can find out tomorrow. Together," she offers a hand, "if you would like."

Clarke hesitates for only a moment before taking her hand. Somehow it’s warm, despite the cold temperature, and instantly the warmth seeps into Clarke’s colder skin. “It seems this idea of yours hasn’t turned out so badly, so. Alright. Together.”

"I appreciate your glowing praise," Lexa says with a grin. " _Reshop, Wanheda_."  
  
" _Reshop, Leksa_."  
  
No one seems to notice Lexa's departure as she slips between the corner of two tables and disappears into the darkness. No one seems to notice Clarke standing by herself either, for a time - or so she thinks. She manages to find water in a pitcher further along down the table and when she turns around, there are three chiefs waiting to speak to her.  
  
Over the course of the next hour, attendants throw more wood on the bonfire, servants come around with wine in clay cups - and something fizzier, smelling heavily of bread, in heavy mugs - and the dancing gradually gives way to milling about and drinking. Musicians still play, albeit at a more restful pace, and chiefs cycle through for the opportunity to speak to _Wanheda_. Many congratulate her on her accomplishments, marveling at her victory over the insurmountable Mountain; others want to know what it was like to live in the sky. All want to let her know - however sincerely - that she is welcome to join them.  
  
It's while Clarke has a moment to herself that she approaches. Unaccompanied for the first time that evening, Nia of _Azgeda_ catches her eye from several feet away, and approaches her.  
  
" _Wanheda,_ " she says, raising a cup in her direction, "it is an honor to finally meet you."

Clarke eyes the woman from top to bottom and back again, making no effort to hide her appraisal. “It’s kind of you to say so, Nia. Have you been enjoying the evening?”

"I have. The First Fall celebration in Polis is always a good time." The Queen isn't much taller than her, and yet there is a certain imposing air about her that makes it feel as though she is. Nevertheless, Clarke is tempted to ask her just how many of these celebrations she's been to.  
  
"They told me that you were young," she goes on, studying Clarke's face, "but I had no idea _how_ young. To have accomplished something our own commanders couldn't at such an age...you must be a remarkable person indeed.'

Clarke’s impulse is to be self deprecating. Or as she sees it, honest. She made a decision because it was the only one to make, not for valor or victory. But the way Nia looks at her - like a panther that imagines it’s playing with a kitten - combined with the generous amount of wine now diluted in her blood makes her less than interested in giving her the satisfaction.  
  
“I only did what I had to, to protect my people. I don’t know that age has too much to do with it.”

"Indeed," Nia answers, a smirk on her lips. "Nevertheless, you have taken the people of the Coalition by storm, as it were. As such, though it seems my reputation precedes me, I would be remiss if I didn't formally introduce myself. I am Queen Nia of the Ice Nation, and I look forward to becoming acquainted in the near future."

“Your reputation does indeed precede you, but I’m pleased to meet you officially.” Instead of moving to shake Nia’s hand, Clarke sips more water from the cup she’s been nursing. “Does that mean you plan to stay in Polis for a time?”

"I'm afraid that I must return to my people sooner rather than later; winter comes for us faster than it does for you here," she says, and it almost sounds like a brag - like the cold of her lands automatically makes her people stronger than most. "As such, I will be leaving late tomorrow. But I am certain we will grow to know each other in the future; I can't imagine you will be disappearing again anytime soon, after an entrance like that."

It sounds like a strange, yet undeniable threat. Clarke can feel her lips pull back slightly over her teeth as she smiles in response. “No, I don’t plan to. And I don’t imagine I’ll be hard to track down, if you find you’d like to get to know me better. I’ll be around.”

"Good!” Nia’s smile has too much teeth, and Clarke knows that her jab hasn’t gone unnoticed. “I'm glad to hear it."  
  
"Clarke?" Helena pokes her head around Nia's side. "Sorry, excuse me - Clarke, we were going to head back to the tower. Want to come?"

“Yes, that seems like a good idea.” Clarke nods at Nia. “Until next time, then.”

"Of course, of course," Nia waves a hand, as though to discharge Clarke of any duty to further conversation. "I won't keep you. Until next time."  
  
Helena smiles and nods at Nia perfunctorily, and then loops her arm through Clarke's. They return to the high table to collect their cloaks - the snow is coming down heavily now - and they join a waiting group of partygoers at the edge of the firelight.  
  
"There," Helena says, their elbows knocking together companionably. Clarke is glad for her new boots now; even in the short time that it's been snowing, a thick layer of the stuff has accumulated in the park's grassy places. "That wasn't so bad now, was it?"  
  
"It wasn't," Clarke agrees. "I almost enjoyed myself for a moment there."  
  
"Yeah? Like sparring with the Ice Queen?" Helena chuckles.  
  
Tumnas appears on Helena's other side, and slings an arm over her shoulder. "Who are we talking about?"  
  
"Nia," she answers, and looks at Clarke. "She and _Wanheda_ just had their first meeting."  
  
"It's Clarke. You can call me Clarke. And I wouldn't call it sparring." Helena raises a very pointed eyebrow. "I wasn't a huge fan before tonight and she hasn't exactly changed my opinion. I'll put it that way."  
  
"Do you think so?" Tumnas slurs. Helena raises an eyebrow at him.  
  
"Do you not?"  
  
He shrugs. "Why would I?"  
  
"I dislike most people who threaten me, subtly or otherwise." Clarke chuckles at Tumnas as he holds his hands up in a classic 'I don't know' gesture. "Do you get along with everyone, Tumnas?"  
  
"I try to," he answers, with what Clarke is sure is supposed to be a charming grin. It's a little drunken at the moment. "And she might not have the worst ideas. I mean, just six months ago _Skaikru_ was invading us, we should probably be careful." He makes eye contact with Clarke again, and suddenly seems to remember she's there. He holds out a hand, palm towards her. "No offense."

"We didn't intend to invade anyone, we just...fell. And survived." Clarke puts a hand on Tumnas's shoulder with more force than is necessary, hoping in his drunken state he'll feel it as amiable. "But we'll do more than survive now. Maybe Nia wants peace in her own way, but wouldn't you rather work together than fight? You seem like the type of guy who understands how messy fighting is. Peace..." Clarke gestures around them - by now they've reached the tower courtyard, and there are still revelers making a go of it in the snow, "is far more fun."  
  
He looks around - first right, then left, both a little too quick and a little too hard, so that Clarke can feel his weight shift and knock into Helena, then into her - and begins to laugh. "It's true!" He says, "Waaaay more fun. Now, who's up for one more drink? I have the most delicious ambrosia the Glowing Forest has to offer in my room..."  
  
"I think we ought to go to sleep, but I appreciate the offer." As the lift opens onto the tower's main floor Clarke pats him on the back, half pushing him down the hallway toward his room. Or at least, the opposite direction of her room - she's confident he'll find his way. Reasonably confident.  
  
"Okay, okay," he says, tripping a little over his own feet. He waves behind him at the two women. "Next time, next time..."  
  
As he stumbles his way down the hall, singing something incomprehensible under his breath, Helena turns to Clarke, her hands folded in front of her. "Sorry about him," she says, tipping her head in Tumnas' direction. She puts her hand up around her mouth and stage whispers, "He's a bit of an idiot."  
  
Clarke chuckles. "A bit. A well meaning one though, it seems. For the most part." She inclines her head up, gesturing down the opposite hall. "Are you heading to bed yourself?"  
  
"Well, that does seem to be the healer's orders," she says, dropping her hands. They disappear into pockets that Clarke hadn't noticed until now. "Or _Wanheda's,_ as the case may be."  
  
"They are one and the same, I'm afraid. It would be the titles I didn't choose that I'm best known by." Clarke rests her hands on her hips, suddenly very much wishing she had pockets too. This outfit is impossible to relax in. "Though I admit, I'm actually not very tired. Maybe it's all the adrenaline built up from today."  
  
"Oh?" Helena raises an eyebrow, and grins an overtly flirtatious grin. "Did you have other plans, then?"  
  
Clarke shrugs, but would be hard-pressed to resist grinning back. That is, if she were even trying to resist in the first place.  
  
"Not in particular. You are one of very few people who I could possibly stand talking to after all of that socializing. Which is hardly a grand proposal. And I have nothing entertaining to suggest we do," Clarke and Helena start laughing even before she finishes her sentence, "so what I'm really saying is I'm useless, and I have very little to offer, but am willing nonetheless."  
  
"Alright then," Helena says, and touches Clarke's arm on the way by her. "Useless One, come with me." She looks over her shoulder. "Can you be quiet?"  
  
Clarke raises an eyebrow. "Of course."  
  
"Then come on!"  
  
Helena leads her down the stairs, past impassive guards that take little objection to their presence, and down onto the kitchen level. There are a few hands still milling about, but it would seem that they, too, had their fun this evening; they pass the open door of the kitchen to find a few people slowly, sleepily cleaning up cups and wine bottles. As they do, Helena turns to look at Clarke and puts her finger against her lips.  
  
They come to the far end of the hall, where Clarke has never been, and stop at a closed door. Helena steps close, putting her mouth close to her ear. "Keep watch," she whispers, and pulls two pins out of her hair. Sinking to one knee, she puts them both in the door's keyhole.  
  
The hallway remains empty for the next two minutes, before Clarke hears a click. She turns to find the door open and Helena gone. A sound of rustling comes from the darkness within, and then Helena returns with a bottle in her hand.  
  
"Go! Go go go," she hisses, grinning and dashing for the closest stairwell.  
  
Clarke is confident that her eyebrows have risen above her hairline, but this isn't her first rodeo and she does as Helena says. By the time they reach the top of the stairs they're both breathless and laughing.  
  
"Come on," she whispers, at this point totally unnecessarily, and grabs Helena's hand. Two more corners and one more short stairwell and they're practically outside of Clarke's room. She opens the door and slips inside, Helena close behind her.  
  
"I had," Clarke has to pause to catch her breath, "no idea...you were such a rule breaker!"  
  
"Oh please," Helena is laughing again, falling back against the door. "Don't let Lexa fool you, breaking rules is what it means to be a - what do you call us - Grounder." She straightens up, pushes her hair back over her head, and pulls the bandana from her hair. "Find us some glasses, I'll get this open."  
  
"I think there were some...yes." Clarke finds two glasses on the desk. She'd only used one for water and makes a note to take that one for herself as she hands the other over to Helena. "I'm glad you all aren't as tightly wound as Lexa. I can barely deal with one of her."  
  
"Yeah, _now,_ " Helena grumps. She lifts the bottle to her mouth and tears at its wax seal with her teeth. It pulls away with a jerk, she spits it out, and removes the rest of the wax from the head. She then flops into a chair, her legs kicked over one arm, and pops the cork.  
  
"Gimme," she says, making a grabby hand at Clarke. She fills her proffered cup with a small portion of amber liquid. "She never used to be this way, you know," she says, and fills the other one. "I still love her, but. It makes me sad sometimes."  
  
"I imagine wrangling the lot of you might make a person a little..." Clarke hands over the second glass, flopping into her chair with a relieved sigh, "exhausted." Approximately three seconds later she stands up again and declares, "I'm putting on a shirt, I've had about all I can handle of this corset."  
  
Clarke wanders over to the bed where what is now a substantial pile of clothes lies haphazardly and chooses the softest looking shirt she can find - the same dark red one she'd worn the other night to meet Lexa. Thankfully, taking off the shirt Elena had made for her is far easier than putting it on. "What was she like? Before all this?"  
  
"Fun," Helena says, with extra exasperation. "Ugh. If you're getting comfortable, so am I." And Clarke hears her work her way into a sitting position, and then stand.  
  
Clarke glances over and sees Helena unstrap herself from the leather chest armor she'd been wearing. "By all means. There are some fresh clothes over there, if you'd like them. I'm sure Elena will be happy to think I'm not wearing the same shirt yet again."  
  
This time Clarke flops on her favorite chair, finding her half curled, half sprawled out position easily. "Fun like stealing booze from Tera's kitchen?"  
  
"Fun like following me along when I did," Helena snorts. "Though sometimes, it was her idea. She had the lightest feet of anyone I knew. Mostly she was interested in sneaking out of the tower, or stealing snacks from the kitchen." Helena drops her cuirass on the floor and flops back into her chair. "Or to see Costia," she mumbles, and picks up her cup to take a drink.  
  
"Mmm. It's not just her duties that have made her the way she is. I can understand that." Clarke takes a drink from her own glass. She's gotten used to the wine and takes a larger sip than she intends. It burns, like the moonshine on the Ark but smokier and...better. Even so, she clears her throat in surprise at the sensation. "Wow, what is that?"  
  
Helena laughs, kicking one of her feet up in the air. "The finest ambrosia in the Glowing Forest," she says, in an imitation of Tumnas. "Fire in a bottle. Also known as whiskey."  
  
"Wow," Clarke reiterates. She takes another sip. "We had booze on the Ark, but nothing like this. I think whiskey is my new favorite thing."  
  
"Yooooooou," Helena hums, lifting her head to catch Clarke's eye, "are welcome." And she winks. "So what do you and _Skaikru_ drink, then?"

“Apparently swill, I’ve just now learned.” Clarke chuckles. “It’s moonshine, so...I don’t know what you’d compare it to, but it’s disturbingly close to actual rubbing alcohol - the kind you clean with - in smell and taste. Sometimes we’d put fruits in it for a few months, to steep the taste of them into it, but fruit was hard to come by and it didn’t always work all that well anyway.” Clarke grins ruefully. “Alcohol served more for entertainment purposes than actual taste, anyway.”

Helena tuts. "You poor thing," she says, and raises her cup. "Here's to alcohol that's for taste, _and_ for enjoyment."

“I can absolutely drink to that.” Clarke sips at her drink again. Her head swims for a second, forcing her to blink a few times to refocus.  
  
“I’ll make you a deal, Helena. I’ll trade you stories about the Ark for stories of your childhood here in Polis. I want to know more about what it was like to grow up here, on Earth. And not even Lexa knows most of my stories. What do you think? Fair?”

"Oh, _yes,_ " Helena says, and swings herself up into a sitting position. "But you go first. I want to know what it's like to live in the sky, but I have a feeling my stories are the ones with real currency here."  
  
They spend the next hour swapping stories over the rest of their whiskey, with Clarke gradually sinking more and more into her favorite chair. At some point she pulls her new cloak, abandoned originally over the back of her chair, over her like a blanket and snuggles in. The next thing she knows, sunlight is blazing through the windows.


	9. Playing Hooky

Clarke squints. Her brain takes a minute or two to catch up, blinded and bleary in the light. She and Helena had been talking, then Helena left...and insisted on leaving the bottle. Clarke looks over at the table and groans. It's half empty, which explains the headache now making itself known in her forehead.

It's clearly well into the morning, given how high and bright the sun is. The smell of food wafts into her nostrils. She searches the room, doing her best to move her head as little as possible, lest it split itself open with the pulse of her headache. A plate of what appears to be breakfast sits by the door, the sight of which makes Clarke simultaneously bless Elena for her endless thoughtfulness and curse herself. It really is late.  
  
She pours herself out of the chair, the wolf skin cloak falling to the ground in the process. Rather than move the food to the chair, she has just enough energy in her to sit on the floor beside the tray and slowly feed herself its contents. Despite the smell that had been so enticing a moment ago, it proves difficult to eat too much of it too quickly; her stomach rebels, even as she knows she needs it.  
  
Once she's stomached as much as she can at that point - and downs two cups of water - she crawls back over to her nest and naps for a little while. When she wakes again, Elena has appeared; the bathroom steams with the heat and scent of a freshly poured bath, and she offers to help Clarke undo the braids in her hair. She also offers to help her remove her war paint, which is the first time Clarke remembers she still has war paint on.  
  
After snacking on the remainder of her breakfast, now cold but welcome nonetheless, she sinks into the bath to wash the smell of fire and smoke from her skin. When she emerges again her head is still heavy, but she feels much more like a functioning person.  
  
She dresses in the same shirt and pants she slept in, utterly uninterested in the work of finding a new outfit. Once that is done and her hair is drying, she is presented with a choice: the whole of Polis still stands, ready to envelope her in relative anonymity once again. Alternatively, many of the delegations will be leaving today, as Elena had reminded her, and a handful have been meeting with Lexa in the throne room beforehand.

It’s extremely tempting to wrap herself in a jacket and escape, but the opportunity for that is gone. Maybe once the delegations have left she’ll have the opportunity to wander around with the freedom she’s become accustomed to, but she made her move. She’s revealed herself and she can’t take it back. Nor, truthfully, would she if she had the opportunity.  
  
So instead, Clarke leaves her jacket and makes her way to Lexa’s throne room. Hopefully the casual air of her clothes will have the dual effect of effortlessness and illustrating how established her position here already is. At least, ideally, that will be the case, since she has no interest in making any more of an effort than she already has by willingly entering a room full of politicians.

When she opens the door it's to find that the driftwood chair has been returned to its dais - but the throne is empty. Instead, a table has been set up in the center of the room's bisecting carpet, a handful of chairs and loads of papers and scrolls strewn around and across it.  
  
"You're still drunk, Tumnas," an exasperated Helena says.  
  
She sits at the table across from the man in question, who doesn't look all that well - but certainly looks more agitated than drunk. At the table as well is Madi, who turns an inquisitive eye in the door's direction, and a man that Clarke recognizes as Wyatt, the leader of the Broadleaf clan. At the head of the table stands Lexa, her hands wrapped around the edge of its dark wood and far enough away from each other that her shoulders slump a little. She looks tired - but then, when does she not?  
  
At the sound of Clarke's entrance, Helena lifts what looks like a wet rag from her eyes to investigate its source. Landing on her she smirks a little. "Clarke!" She says and looks at Lexa, who straightens immediately. "You're just in time."

“And I was so sure I’d be late.” Clarke's eyes find Lexa's. “What am I just in time for?”

Lexa just extends an arm, holding out a slip of paper. "This."  
  
Clarke crosses the room to take it from her, turning it quickly to scan the contents. As she does her brow furrows, and her stomach drops.  
  
"My people are coming here?"  
  
"In two days' time," the Commander confirms. "It would seem our allies in _Azgeda_ could not wait to tell _Skaikru_ that their missing commander has been found."  
  
"Nia sent a raven last night," Helena says, and nods to the slip of paper in Clarke's hand. "They sent the bird back carrying that."  
  
"Of course she did," Clarke mutters. The letter doesn't say much, only that they plan to be in Polis in two days and request an audience - but it's signed by Bellamy, and that combined with the speed with which he'd dispatched it is clear enough to Clarke. They plan to take her back to Arkadia.  
  
"They have no idea why I'm here. Or worse, the wrong idea." She slumps into an empty chair and tosses the note back onto the table. "Nia could have told them anything."

“She wouldn’t have said anything too untoward; not only would it not benefit her to tell them that you are a prisoner here, I am also certain we would have received a very different response,” Lexa says, and resumes her position half-leaning over the table. “There is nothing unsalvageable here. It merely...moves up the timeline.”  
  
Clarke folds her arms over her chest. “What timeline?”  
  
“Your timeline,” Lexa answers, flatly. “Did you anticipate speaking to your people so soon?”  
  
Clarke’s eyes narrow, but even that small action makes her head hurt.  
  
“No,” she leans her elbows on the table and rubs at her temples. “No, I didn’t. But Bellamy signed the letter. If the Chancellor were coming she would’ve signed it herself. She may not even know he left, he isn’t known for slow decision making. I know how to talk to him. If he’s leading whoever is coming here, it should be easier to negotiate...” Clarke glances up at Lexa pointedly, “whatever it is we’re negotiating.”  
  
“Yes, Commander,” Tumnas says, an edge in his voice. “What _are_ we negotiating?”  
  
Lexa’s eyes settle on the Glowing Forest chieftain, and there’s a wordless warning there. Helena puts a voice to that warning, but only gets out “Tumnas—“  
  
“No!” He says sharply, not about to be overridden. “My people have been more than happy to underwrite what you’re doing here, Commander, in the name of peace. I know the Glowing Forest has more wealth than Polis can hope to have on its own. But how can you claim that you’re suing for peace when you have opened the doors of the Mountain to _strangers?”_  
  
“We are not strangers.” Clarke turns to the man, still disheveled from the previous evening but suddenly far more serious than she’s ever seen him. “Not anymore. We want to be a part of this world - of your world. And we have things we can offer that no one else can, that’s just a fact. The Mountain contains technology and medical instruments that could do just as much to help people as they have been used to harm them, if not more - and we know how to use it. My people have been training _Trikru_ healers to use that technology well, and we could teach more healers from other clans. But we can’t teach healers how to use anything if we can’t have access to it.”  
  
“And we’re just supposed to trust you on that?”  
  
This comes from Wyatt, speaking for the first time in Clarke’s presence. He’s leveled a calm, if intent, look at her with a pair of cool, almost grey eyes. His voice is low and sonorous and he wears his dark hair in thick, tight braids all the way down his scalp. A well trimmed goatee adorns his jaw.  
  
“I mean no offense, _Wanheda,"_ he continues, and looks at Lexa, "but you must know how this looks. Especially because we were not made aware of this decision before it was made.”  
  
“The Commander is charged with making treaties in our name, that’s what we signed up for when we joined the Coalition,” Helena says, and she sounds as though she’s made this argument a number of times before. “Just because you feel that you’re owed every detail—“  
  
“They have weapons in there!” Tumnas all but shouts. “The same ones that destroyed Ton DC, the same ones that—“  
  
“ _Do you really think._ ”  
  
Lexa’s voice does that thing again. Though she’s barely raised it, it fills the whole of the room like a peal of thunder. At the head of the table she has drawn herself up to her full height and levels a challenging look at Tumnas. “That I would turn such resources over without supervision? Without concessions? The Mountain’s weapons are under guard, and we are working closely with _Skaikru_ to understand them. This is technology that we cannot hope to know alone, and what we do not understand poses us far more of a threat than what we do.”  
  
“Indra’s warriors guard the weapons and oversee any contact my people have with anything in the Mountain. No one has argued over this, we want peace and to work together.” Clarke looks from Wyatt to Tumnas and back again. She doesn't know that for certain, of course - the deal had been made while she was still in the wilderness, meaning everything she knows about it comes from Lexa and Lexa's notes. But the other chiefs don't have to know that. “In order to hold up our end of the bargain and train new healers, we need access to the Mountain. That’s unavoidable. But we don’t expect you to trust us immediately. We plan to earn it. ”

"And how, exactly, do you plan to do that?" Tumnas asks. He avoids eye contact with Lexa, clearly somewhat cowed; he chooses instead to angle his irritation at Clarke directly.

“A few ways.” Clarke matches his gaze. “How long will you - and Wyatt and Helena and Madi, for that matter - be in Polis? If you’ll be here for another day or so, perhaps we can discuss what I have in mind and how I envision our people working together. I’d like to hear your opinions and ideas - in a less dramatic setting, if possible.” Tumnas turns a little red at that and Helena’s smirk widens slightly, but Clarke continues, “Obviously the Commander will have the final say on whatever we discuss, but a conversation between myself and each of you will better help us give her the information she needs to make a decision. And hopefully, along the way, I’ll convince you that we’re trustworthy. What do you think?” She poses the question at Tumnas, but meets the other chiefs’ eyes, clearly extending the offer to everyone in the room.

"I think it is a wise offer," Helena says, watching Tumnas for his response. Seeing this, a look of frustration passes over his face.  
  
"I will not be able to stay," Wyatt says, "But I will be leaving an ambassador in my stead. I would be glad to have her speak with you, _Wanheda_."  
  
"I'd be happy to discuss this with her." _After all, I'm really closer to an ambassador myself,_ Clarke thinks. Though admitting that seems an unproductive distinction. "Tumnas? Do you find my suggestion unsatisfactory?"  
  
The man in question meets her eyes for a moment, then sighs. "I do not, _Wanheda,_ " he says, and glances at Lexa. "At least that will mean fewer unwelcome surprises."  
  
"I'll convince you, Tumnas. Trust me," Clarke says, her voice half serious and half teasing. "I promise only pleasant surprises."  
  
That draws a little grin from him, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes the way that she'd hoped.  
  
"If that is settled then," Lexa says, "perhaps we can adjourn? I do not wish to delay your preparations any more than we already have, Wyatt."  
  
The group shuffles to their feet, Wyatt, Tumnas, and Madi - who has remained so quiet that Clarke had almost forgotten she was there - standing to leave. The girl catches Clarke's eye and, though she doesn't smile, the small nod she gives her feels somehow like an equivalent. Clarke herself wonders whether she should leave as well when Helena motions subtly for her to remain seated. The others leave as a group, and as soon as the door closes, Lexa turns on her heel and storms several paces away.  
  
"How did she find out?" she growls, and there is an anger simmering beneath her skin that Clarke hasn't seen for some time. "When I find out who is responsible, I will ensure he dies a traitor's death."  
  
Helena still sits at the table and finally deigns to fill Clarke in. "All of that," she says, motioning to where Tumnas had been sitting, "Is because Nia found out about the Mountain deal and filled in the other chiefs this morning before departing."  
  
"I wondered how that had suddenly become public knowledge," Clarke admits. She had no time to think about how they'd found out about the deal before Tumnas went off, especially with her head still not operating at one hundred percent capacity. But now... "Who else knew about the deal?"  
  
"Indra," Lexa says, pacing across the floor at the foot of the dais. "The guards at the Mountain."  
  
Helena puts her hand up. "I found out this week."  
  
Clarke gives Helena a disapproving look but can't keep a small smile completely out of her voice. "I think we can reasonably rule you out. And Indra would never tell Nia anything."  
  
When Clarke looks to Lexa again, still pacing, it's obvious that she hasn't relaxed at all. If anything her muscles seem even more tense.  
  
"Lexa, it doesn't matter. We'll find out who told her, but the chiefs know now. So now we have to deal with it." Clarke grips the edge of the table, imitating Lexa's earlier stance. "And Bellamy is coming. Perfect."  
  
"I am certain he is the perfect representative to deal with this issue," Lexa says lowly, but the sentiment doesn't sound sincere. She comes to a stop in front of the throne, slowly folds her hands behind her back, and sighs. "We should discuss his arrival."  
  
"Yes, we should." Clarke watches Lexa's movements. Her eyes look so tired and despite her rigid posture, her shoulders slump slightly. "But what if we did that...later? What if right now we eat something so that hopefully my head stops pounding and we avoid politics for, like, one hour?"  
  
"Seconded," Helena says, her hand in the air again. Lexa throws her a look.  
  
"We are not in committee, Helena," she says.  
  
"Oh, I know," the _Floukru_ leader answers, "But my head also feels like it's going to split open like an overripe melon, and boys shouting is the worst thing for it."  
  
The Commander sighs, and waves a dismissive hand. "Very well. Do what you wish."  
  
Helena mutters something grateful in Trigedasleng and immediately heads for the door. Lexa draws closer as well, but even as Helena leaves, she begins to pore over papers on the table again.  
  
Clarke watches her for a few moments, then: "It seems like I missed quite a bit this morning."  
  
"I knew she had more up her sleeve," Lexa says quietly, her muscles still tensed, "but I did not expect it was this. Trying to sew dissension right after the festival..."  
  
"If she wants a war, this would be a great way to start one." Clarke sighs and rubs at her temples. Damn, she's tired. "It was naive of me not to see it coming."  
  
"You could not have known," Lexa says, and flips a paper over. "Me, on the other hand."  
  
"You...are able to predict the future?" Clarke moves closer to the other woman and glances at the papers she's looking at. Most are in Trigedasleng, but none seem relevant to this particular issue. "She acted more quickly than expected, and there was no way to know she knew about the Mountain."  
  
"But that is the _point_ , Clarke.” Lexa’s frustration is in her eyes as much as it is in her voice. She looks up at Clarke, forgetting the papers for the moment. "There are ways to know these things; wars may be fought by warriors, but they are _won_ through information."  
  
"You would know better than I." Clarke runs a hand through her hair and sits against the edge of the table, facing Lexa. "That may be how wars are fought, but this isn't supposed to be a war. This is supposed to be about peace. At least some of the chiefs are still here, and all are leaving ambassadors. I'll talk to them, and perhaps Bellamy can as well. He may convince others they have nothing to fear from us if I fail."  
  
"It is, perhaps, fortuitous that a delegation is coming after all," Lexa assents, but it sounds like pulling teeth. "Though given the option, I may have asked for someone else. Bellamy is a fine warrior, but a diplomat he is not."  
  
"That may be why he'll fare better than I would with some of them. Warriors respect each other, even when they would do better to rely on the diplomacy of others." Clarke grimaces. "And the truth is, our diplomats may not see eye to eye. I'd rather defend my position myself for now, with his help, than be forced to argue endlessly with my mother.  
  
"But this is the opposite of what I just suggested we do. Helena has surely convinced someone to find us food by now." Clarke stands and extends a hand without thinking about it. Realizing the implication of it in the next instant, she considers taking it back - but then doesn't. "Come with me."  
  
Lexa's mouth opens immediately to protest, until she catches sight of the hand offered her. Then the words halt in her throat. She looks at Clarke for a moment, debate behind her eyes...  
  
"Very well," she sighs, and takes her hand in the same instant. "I suppose starving ourselves will not help the issue."  
  
Clarke grins, the idea of food making her stomach flip with excitement. It's definitely the idea of food and not Lexa's callused but surprisingly slender hand now tucked into hers. Definitely not at all that.  
  
"Exactly. I always know if I just try hard enough I can make you see sense."  
  
Lexa gives her a look of annoyance that doesn't pass as genuine. "I would not get used to it."  
  
They leave the throne room together - though they drop hands once Lexa comes around the table, and Clarke isn't sure who's the one to do it - and go up to Lexa's room, where they find the door already open and Helena laying out a spread of food and a few cups.  
  
"There you two are," she says, looking up at their arrival. "You weren't hanging back so you could hatch more secret plans, were you?"

“Believe it or not, I wasn’t actually privy to these particular ‘secret’ plans until recently.” Clarke doesn’t think twice about flopping sideways into the chair closest to the fire. “Lexa negotiated that without me, presumably with my mother.”

Helena is in the midst of sorting food into three plates when she stops dead in her tracks. Looking up at Clarke, she says, "Your _mother?"_

Clarke nods. "My mother was elected Chancellor by our people. Like a chief, basically."

"Heh," Helena chuckles, going back to work. "I should have known leadership ran in the family."  
  
Lexa moves quietly into the room, being sure to close the door securely behind them. Then she sinks wordlessly into the chair beside Clarke, closing her eyes as she rests her head back against its top.

“Leadership, stubbornness...call it what you like.” Clarke cocks her head at Lexa, concern creeping into her voice against her will. “I think your fearless leader may be a little burnt out, Helena.”

"When is she not?" Helena says with a grin, looking up at Lexa. "I keep telling her she needs to take a break. Maybe take a trip out somewhere near the water, with some fresh salt air..."  
  
Lexa doesn't open her eyes, but she does produce a surprising - and surprisingly familiar - gesture: she lifts her right hand to present the back of it to Helena, and flips her middle finger up.

Clarke laughs - a full out, no reservations laugh that surprises her as much as it's an absolute relief to let out. "It would be the gesture for 'fuck off' that survived the last hundred years. You should make rude gestures more often, it humanizes you."

That causes Lexa to open her eyes, though she doesn't move her head to look at Clarke so much as give her an amused side eye. "Am I not human enough for you, Clarke?"

Clarke raises an eyebrow. "You are more human than anyone I know. I'm just saying, you could throw one of those middle fingers in, say, Nia's face." She puts her hands up in a shrug. "Might really hammer your point home."

"Mm." Lexa closes her eyes for a moment more, and a small, slow smirk turns her lips. "That is a tempting thought."  
  
"You know what else is tempting?" Helena says, picking up a plate. "This food, now come on."  
  
She passes one to Clarke, and as Lexa finally sits forward, eyes wide open, she passes one to her as well. Full cups are plopped in front of them, and as they dig in, Helena picks up a plate of her own and flops onto the couch with it.  
  
"Soooooo..." she says, as she drapes her legs across the cushions and tucks in as well, "how was everyone's night last night? Everyone enjoy the festival?"

Clarke has no idea how she could possibly still be hungry after that breakfast Elena brought her, but just the smell of the food is enough to make her stomach rumble loudly. "Aside from having to hear how impressive I am for murdering people all night," she says between bites, "I enjoyed it."

"Do the Sky People dance much?" Helena asks suddenly. She had collected a number of stories about living on the Ark last night, but none had touched on that particular detail. "What sort of instruments do your people have?"

"Not much," Clarke admits. "Parties and dancing weren't exactly encouraged. We'd have to get ahold of the work schedule for different parts of the Ark, to find a space that would be empty enough to play music without everyone hearing. Then find a way to get there at night without anyone noticing. But we managed a few times. Some people brought moonshine, some people brought CD's and stereos. Space isn't exactly instrument-friendly."  
  
That comment is met with empty stares, so Clarke explains, "CD's are like...well before the bombs, people played instruments and sang songs and you could record them doing it. And then put that recording onto a CD. Each CD has about a dozen songs on it, and a stereo plays the recording back. So everyone would bring whatever CD's they had and we'd just play those. Last night was the first time I've ever heard whole songs played live."

Lexa and Helena exchange a befuddled look.  
  
"Record it?" Lexa repeats. "Such that you could hear it later?"  
  
"So...you could hear it over and over again?" Helena adds. "The same music, played the same way, even without the instruments or the players there?"

"Yes, exactly. It sounds exactly the same, every time." Clarke chuckles at the confused look on Lexa's face, somewhere between a frown and a...pout? "Trust me, you aren't missing much. Real players and instruments playing live is far better. Besides, I was usually...less than sober by the time someone would find a stereo."

"Speaking of less than sober..." Lexa has clearly been waiting to hop on this topic when she had the chance, and the fact that it gets them off talk of this strange CD magic is only a bonus. Her eyes level on Helena. "Tera has sent word that one of her prized bottles of whiskey went missing at some point last night. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"  
  
"Me?" Helena asks, sneaking an amused look at Clarke. "No, not at all."  
  
Lexa sighs. "Helena! You can't be doing this!"  
  
"Oh come on, _Heda,_ " Helena says pointedly, rolling her eyes and popping food into her mouth. "No one got hurt, and she has plenty more. You wouldn't string me up for a victimless crime, would you? When you yourself have participated in such knavery before?"

"I'm afraid you'd have to string me up as well, in that case." Clarke is barely able to school her face into a serious expression - and truthfully, isn't trying very hard. "I may have assisted in that crime."

Lexa's eyebrows go up, and she looks quickly between Helena and Clarke. "You roped _her_ into it??"  
  
Helena shrugs, and is no longer trying to hide her smirk. "We needed a night cap," she says, "and your people didn't provide any. So we provided for ourselves."

"I don't know why you sound so scandalized, Lexa." Clarke's smirk perfectly mirrors Helena's at this point and from the way Lexa continues to glance back and forth between them, she's made the comparison. "From what Helena's told me, you were a regular accomplice to these activities."

"I was a child," Lexa answers.  
  
"You were _fun,_ " Helena teases.  
  
"I have _responsibilities!"_   
  
Lexa surges to her feet, nearly knocking her plate to the ground in the process. For a moment her limbs vibrate with the energy of pent up anger...then she catches herself, and it seeps out of her again, just as quickly as it came. Shamefaced, she puts her plate down on the table, and walks to one of the windows.  
  
"Not all of us can just...play hooky," she continues, in a calmer voice. Looking out over the city, she leans against one side of the window frame.

Clarke's smirk instantly turns into a frown. She glances at Helena who looks just as surprised and bewildered as Clarke feels.  
  
Lexa doesn't look over when Clarke stands up, though she must hear it. She walks over and leans against the other side of the window, maybe a foot from Lexa, and examines her face. She looks upset - frustrated and sad at the same time. Clarke can't blame her. Hard as this whole unveiling _Wanheda_ plan has been for her, and much as it remains Lexa's fault that she's here in the first place, Clarke's allowed herself to be selfish. She's allowed Lexa to carry the brunt of responsibility for everything she's done while in Polis, and the realization makes her stomach sink.  
  
"I was the last person to hear that my people are coming to Polis, because I was asleep. And recovering from..." Clarke glances at Helena, who still can't quite keep the smirk off her face, "last night. Clearly I should have a little more concern for my own responsibilities. I'm sorry."

"There is nothing to apologize for," Lexa sighs. She still doesn't look at her. "You could not have known, any more than any of us did. And I have asked much of you this week already. Much more than I would like to." After a moment she closes her eyes and, folding one arm over her chest, she lifts the opposite hand to press a thumb and forefinger against her eyelids.  
  
"Perhaps I do need a break," she mumbles, too low for Helena to hear.

"Well I didn't just do it because you asked." Clarke has no idea why, but sticks her foot out and kicks Lexa playfully in the shin. The Commander’s eyes flash open and she pulls her hand away, blinking with equal parts surprise and confusion down at the point of contact. When did she get so sensitive? She tries not to think too much about it. "What would a break look like for the Commander?"

"Somewhere away from here," Lexa answers softly, and her eyes focus on somewhere in the distance. "Somewhere quiet."  
  
Lexa will say little more than that on the subject, and after a time sees fit to rejoin the meal. Conversation resumes, but it is more careful now; Helena speaks mostly to Clarke, inquiring after the members of _Skaikru_ that are likely to arrive. She takes a particular interest in Raven, but it is time to leave before she can poke too much further. With the sun setting lower on the horizon, it is time to see the remaining delegations off.  
  
Those who have not yet left all depart as one large train, its many parts set to peel off as needed on the road ahead. There is decidedly less fanfare here, but Lexa attends in her coat, pauldron, and cape, her helm of awe glinting on her forehead. She is all politesse and grace as the chiefs make their goodbyes, but Clarke can see that it does not quite reach her eyes.  
  
When all is said and done, the banners of ten out of the twelve clans have left. Only _Floukru_ and _Trikru_ remain and, despite the crowd of servants and attendants who filter back into the tower after the departure, the place already feels emptier without them.

Despite sleeping in, a nap, and plenty of food, Clarke still begins to feel tired earlier than usual. Helena seems to feel the same, as she sneaks off to her room immediately after the last clan leaves. Lexa still appears distant, lost in thought as she so often is, and Clarke doesn’t have it in her to push about it further. Even if she did have the energy, she isn’t sure she should. As taxing as the last few days have been on Clarke, she’s forced to admit that they must’ve been tiring for Lexa as well.  
  
So instead of finding something else to do, Clarke heads back to her room early. She doesn’t even bother putting different clothes on, just throws hers off and throws a blanket around herself as she falls into her chair. Nothing sounds better to her than reading in this moment, so she snuggles further into the cushions and props the book of Shakespeare’s poems up between the back of the chair and her thighs. Many pages and even more poems later, she’s fast asleep.

When she wakes the next morning - at the usual hour and feeling much more like herself - it occurs to Clarke that she never actually confirmed with Ronnie that they would continue their training. And, if they would, that she wouldn't be there with him the previous morning.  
  
It occurs to her quickly thereafter that she has nothing much else to do. The thing that she had spent the last five days building up to was now done; people in the tower would begin to recognize her, not as a nondescript blonde woman, but _Wanheda_. And she has woken up at her normal time, as though she were on that same schedule...so she uncurls from her place on the chair and starts to dress. Worst case scenario, Ronnie isn't there and she can come back up and bother Tera for breakfast.  
  
If _Wanheda_ is allowed to bother Tera for breakfast.  
  
The shirts Elena has been leaving for her have been thicker since the snow fell, and the most recent addition to her gradually growing collection has an attached hood. She pulls it on and adds her new leather jacket, pausing a moment to tug the hood out from under the jacket's neck. Once she adds her gloves and boots, she's ready to head out.  
  
As soon as she reaches the training pitch, it is Indra - not Ronnie - who meets her. The _Trikru_ chieftain looks ready to train, her sword on her hip and her clothing light despite the snow still on the ground, but she's looking around, somewhat baffled.

“Indra?” The _Trikru_ chief is walking in a circle now, slowly. “Is everything alright?”

"The Commander was supposed to be here," is the answer. Indra continues to look around her. "She's never late, and yet I can't find her."

Confusion and surprise is quickly followed by an extremely powerful surge of anxiety, leaving Clarke stunned for a moment. Lexa is...late? Lexa is _never_ late. Lexa is the most annoyingly consistent person Clarke knows, with Ronnie as a close second. And Ronnie isn’t here either...none of the Nightbloods are here.  
  
As usual, her feet realize her decision before her brain does. She’s already started jogging away when she yells over her shoulder, “I’ll check her room. Maybe she...slept in.” Even over a distance, Clarke is sure the skepticism is clear in her voice. She only half hears Indra’s reply, some grumble and her usual moniker of ‘sky girl,’ as Clarke half runs back to the tower.

Nevertheless, she soon hears boots behind her as she turns the corner, Indra apparently giving up on waiting around. She feels her anxiety increase. If Indra had been here long enough to give up--  
  
A vice-like grip closes around Clarke's wrist, and before she can react she's yanked bodily sideways. Her free hand flies to her knife, even as someone's forearm hits her sternum and slams her backwards against a wall, another hand clamping tight over her mouth; she tugs the blade free in the same instant, and in a flash it's pressed against a neck. Her pulse hammers in her throat, adrenaline pumping through her veins as her muscles tense and jaw tightens, ready to fight - until she sees the forest green eyes settled above that neck.  
  
Lexa has wedged herself in among the stonework of the tower's base, and dragged Clarke in before she could discover her. As their eyes meet, Lexa removes the hand over Clarke’s mouth and puts a finger against her own lips before pulling her further into the shadows with her.  
  
Clarke finds herself holding her breath despite herself as the sound of Indra's boots grow closer. Their owner steps into sight as she passes the spot, and disappears just as quickly, none the wiser. As soon as the sound of footsteps fade, Lexa meets Clarke’s eyes again and, releasing one wrist, closes a hand around the other and pushes her knife down.  
  
"Tell no one you saw me," Lexa whispers, pulls a scarf up over her head and hair, and steps out of the hiding place.

It takes Clarke several seconds to react - her heart is still pounding, her ears ringing from the adrenaline and her mind doing its very best to sort through the simultaneous feelings of familiar, debilitating panic and being so, so close to Lexa’s face - and by that time Lexa is already several paces away.  
  
“Wait, what?!” Clarke catches up and grabs Lexa’s shoulder. “Lexa, what—" Lexa turns around and gives Clarke the most serious warning glare she has ever been on the receiving end of, and it successfully cuts her off. “I mean. You. Whatever, what are you doing?”

"Taking some advice," she answers, and twists her shoulder in such a way that it seems to turn to water in Clarke's grip. In a blink, she's skirting quickly and silently across the courtyard towards the main gate.

Clarke is very confident she’s never felt so baffled. Advice...?  
  
It takes her twice as long to catch up to Lexa this time - how could she possibly be able to walk that fast? - and by the time she does the other woman has clearly heard her coming. She turns on her heel so abruptly that Clarke has to throw her momentum backwards to stop from running into her.  
  
“What adv—"

Hands on her shoulders spin her around and shove her back against a wall for the second time in as many minutes, and as her back hits the stone and metal Lexa's follows soon after. Only then does she hear the voices of a pair of approaching Grounders. They pass without noticing them, and Lexa levels a glare on her.  
  
"If anyone sees me leave they will know where I am, and I will get no peace," she hisses. "If you're going to follow me, at least be quiet about it."  
  
And then she's gone, disappeared around the corner of the gate.

Clarke does hesitate. She insists that to herself as she follows Lexa from a distance and considerably more stealthily. The other woman clearly wants to be alone, which would exclude Clarke from her plans. And yet, she still follows her. It’s not as if she has anything better planned for today than following Lexa like a lost puppy. She insists that to herself, too.

Several blocks go by before Clarke sees Lexa step into an alley. She rounds the corner quickly, thinking the Commander intends to lose her, and almost smacks face first into her.  
  
Lexa has ditched the black for the day and dressed herself in greens and greys instead. She puts one hand on Clarke’s shoulder to keep her in place before stepping around her, the scarf still drawn over her head like a cowl, and peeks carefully around the corner and back the way they came. After a moment's observation she straightens up, apparently satisfied that no one is following them.  
  
"The advice," she says, at last answering the half-asked question. Her voice is a normal volume as she turns to Clarke again. "That I take a break. A day out from the tower, where I can find a few quiet hours to myself."

“Ah. That advice. That’s...” Clarke quite literally cannot hide her surprise. “Well, good! That’s great. And I’m totally ruining it, aren’t I? It’s just when you weren’t at the training pitch...and neither was Ronnie, by the way, which is still weird. He’s always there...” she’s rambling. Lexa is just so close, literally mere inches away, and her eyes are so green against that scarf...Clarke clears her throat. “Anyway. I should probably head back. Leave you to your day off.”

Lexa just rolls her eyes and grabs Clarke's hand, spinning her around as she all but charges past her.  
  
"I gave the Nightbloods the day off," she explains as she pulls Clarke down the alley. "If I stood any chance of escaping, it had to be early."

“I guess that explains it.” Clarke once again has to jog to keep up with Lexa’s pace. How _does_ she walk so fast? “So where exactly are we going?”  
  
That _we_ comes out awfully easily and Clarke mentally scolds herself.

"One of my favorite places in the city," Lexa answers - and for once, the intensity of her expression drops. Instead of hard glares and quick paces, Clarke sees something that almost looks like a smile take her face.  
  
Her pace eventually relaxes as well and she releases Clarke's hand as they stroll along the next few blocks. Lexa ultimately leads her to a sizable building that she has marked on her map but had never been inside - mostly because the doors are flanked by guards. The Commander pulls her scarf back then, and both stand at attention as they pass.  
  
The interior is dimly lit by massive light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, illuminating rows upon rows of shelves. And all of them, _all of them_ are packed to the gills with books.

Clarke stops about two steps into the door and gapes. It’s a _library_. An honest to god library. She’s only read about libraries, ironically, in books - the Ark only had about five shelves of them and one of those shelves was almost entirely written in Mandarin. This place has...Clarke could never hope to count them. It must be hundreds of books.  
  
The shelves are incredibly high, and there’s even a staircase off to the right that leads up to a balcony that surrounds the entire room. A balcony with more shelves, and more books. And that’s just the first room, there’s clearly more - Lexa is already halfway through the hallway leading deeper into the building when she realizes Clarke hasn’t followed her and turns around.  
  
“This is...” Clarke throws her hands up, totally at a loss for words. “You have a library?!”

Lexa's face breaks into a wide, honest smile. "I spent much of my last life collecting them," she says. "Now I get to reap the rewards."

“You mean, the Commander before you collected all of these?” Lexa nods confirmation and Clarke looks back up at the rows and rows of spines. “You Grounders never cease to amaze.” Clarke can’t help the grin that overtakes her face. “Especially you. This is amazing.”

The smile Lexa wears turns somewhat bashful, and she waits for Clarke to catch up before turning to continue along the hall.  
  
"It has been quite the project," she says, her voice quiet to respect the almost reverent silence of the place. As they enter the next room, Clarke hears the first signs that they aren't alone; the sound of muted footsteps and sliding books comes from around the corners of these shelves. As they pass, she spots a handful of people: some in purple robes like Titus, others lavishly dressed like dignitaries, and still others who appear to be just average citizens of the city. Those who look up at their passing pause to incline their heads to Lexa, but none speak or move to intercept them.  
  
"Those few who still scavenge the ruins of the Fires will sometimes come across a book or two," she continues, "but as I have said before, most are in delicate, if not utterly unreadable, states. In my previous life, I spent much time and wealth to gather as many as could be found and hired teams of artisans to restore what could be restored and copy what could not. Those efforts continue now, though the number of books discovered has slowed. Instead, I have directed those teams to begin translating what we can into Trigedasleng."  
  
They reach an intersection of two hallways, and Lexa comes to stand in the center of it. Beneath her feet, the floor has been inlaid with a seal that Clarke doesn't recognize, and the letters USPS. She's doubtful Lexa would even know the original meaning of the pattern; it looks like it's as old as the building itself.  
  
"Much of what is stored here," she indicates a room to her right, "are works of our own. Stories of battles, histories of our wars, and legends of our central figures, as well as records of a more mundane nature. But the shelves we just walked through are all those books we have been able to recover, restore, and translate. The rooms behind me and over there," she indicates the door at her back and the one to her left, "are furnished for readers and scholars. I cannot allow the books to leave the library, for the most part, so those are spaces in which they can be read."

Clarke peers into the rooms Lexa indicated and identifies cushioned chairs, couches, pillows strewn on the floor...and that's just what she can see from where they're standing. "I see why you wanted to come here. I think once I settled into one of those chairs, I'd never leave."  
  
The meaning of what Lexa just said finally registers and Clarke once again finds herself positively flabbergasted. "Wait, you write your own books?"

"Nothing quite like these," Lexa admits, indicating the shelves behind her. "They are more on the side of historical accounts than fictions. And they're mostly written in Trigedasleng."

“Hmm. That might help me learn of the language, to read something written in it.” Clarke can’t keep the affectionate smile from her lips. “So this is where you plan to spend your day off? Just reading?”

"And hiding." That sheepish look returns again, and Lexa looks away. "No one that might recognize me will send word that I am here, so I can expect at least a few hours without interruption. You do not have to stay here that long, of course - I would ask only that you wait a while, in case someone is looking for me and followed you."

"You will literally have to force me out of this library if you expect me to go anywhere." It's Clarke's turn to look sheepish now, as she remembers that she essentially invited herself to Lexa's day off. "But we don't have to stay together, or in the same room...I would be the first person to understand the necessity of being alone."

Lexa seems significantly more indifferent to that now that they're here. "You've proven yourself to be a quiet work companion in the past," she says. "If you would like to explore on your own, feel free to do so. But I would not mind having someone nearby who will not ask me to solve all their problems today."

Clarke puts her fist on her heart and says in the most serious voice she can muster, "I solemnly swear to not ask you to solve a single problem."  
  
Lexa shakes her head, but her smile is still there. "Good."  
  
It takes Clarke about ten minutes to pick out not one, but a pile of books. She chooses one book in Trigedasleng - something about a war and _Trikru,_ which seems like it might be both educational and useful. When she moves into the shelves of recovered pre-war books, she's surprised to find some titles she recognizes; Polis' library and Arkadia's seem to have some overlap. In particular, she notes the presence of _The Stone Sky_ by N.K. Jemisin, but neither of its companion books are present. She'll have to bring them here for Lexa's transcribers to see, when next she returns to Polis.

She's almost not surprised to realize that's a _when_ , not an _if_.

There's a section of shelves that has a ton of books by the same authors so she picks one at random: _Along Came A Spider_ by James Patterson. It seems like a mystery novel, which she's enjoyed in the past. Not to mention they make for quick reads and if she isn't allowed to bring books out of the library, she better at least try to finish whatever she starts. And finally, after several minutes of searching, she manages to find two small piles of poetry books. She grabs three that look promising and heads back down to the room with the inviting looking couches, her rather large stack piled high in her arms.  
  
Lexa must still be browsing, so Clarke picks the side of the couch closest to a small fireplace, a low fire already blazing away. After pulling off her boots - she doesn’t want to make herself too comfortable, but if she is staying for several hours it doesn’t seem too crazy to remove her shoes - she turns to the side, using the armrest as a back cushion, and grabs a blanket folded over the back of the couch. Once she's tucked herself snuggly into the blanket she folds her knees up to create a shelf on her thighs and grabs the first book on the top of the stack: _The Poems of Emily Dickinson._

"I am sorry it's so cold in here," Lexa says when she does return, spying the blanket Clarke has wrapped herself in. She takes a bag off her back and sets it beside the couch before taking a seat on the opposite end of Clarke, a singular book in her hand. "It can be difficult to heat such a large building, and with books as dry and delicate as they are..."

"Oh, no need to apologize." Clarke tucks her feet a little further in an attempt to give Lexa more room. "I don't think I'd forgive you if this place burned to the ground because of a fire, now that I know what's in it. Besides, I have a blanket." She examines Lexa's clothes, which look surprisingly light given the weather. "Actually, do you want to share it? I can't imagine you're warm enough in that."

"Oh." The thought seems not to have occurred to Lexa, who eyes the blanket uncertainly. A certain kind of discomfort makes her a little stiff about the shoulders, and she looks away. Clarke's eyebrows draw together at that reaction, but she lets it go."Thank you, but I will be fine. There are more blankets about, in any case."  
  
In looking away, Lexa's eyes land on Clarke's small collection of books sitting at the foot of the sofa. She nods to it. "Did you find something you like?"

"I found plenty of things that seemed interesting. I had a hard time narrowing it down...obviously. What book did you choose?"

She lifts the book so Clarke can see its spine. Most of the books she'd seen have been bound in wood or leather, in some cases merely stitched together. But for nearly every set of those books, there was at least one copy that is bound in cloth, or hard cover; Lexa has selected one such book, an original copy that managed to escape the mildew and deterioration of others. Its spine bears two names: _Rebecca_ and du Maurier.  
  
"I gather that it is in somewhat the same vein as _Pride and Prejudice,_ " she explains, "but rather more intriguing and less...frustrating."

Clarke chuckles. "Of course it is. I'm excited to hear how you think it stands up."

"I'll be sure to let you know."  
  
Both women settle into the warmth and silence, the occasional distant footsteps or cough the only indication that the rest of the world still surrounds them. Lexa occasionally stands to stoke the small fireplace in front of them and eventually does grab a blanket from another chair. After some time, she pulls her bag out from around the side of the couch and removes a paper wrapped package, a hunk of bread, and a wine skin. Without explanation she sets all these things between them, leaving them available for both her and Clarke to pick at.  
  
Inside the wrapper is a chunk of hard cheese, and the contents of the skin turns out to be some kind of spiced red wine. Both are mild and easy to eat, and Clarke does so almost without thinking about it as she flips through pages.

The book of Emily Dickinson poems is the perfect start. Clarke doesn't understand the point of randomly capitalized words, but otherwise the tone and veiled complexity within simple poems appeals to her. However, she quickly grows tired of rereading the same lines and elects to move on to one of the larger books. The book in Trigedasleng is surprisingly large and dense, so she opts for the mystery novel instead.  
  
Clarke has never read anything quite like _Along Came A Spider._ Unlike something like _Pride and Prejudice,_ it moves along at a bracing pace. The characters are interesting, particularly the villain - he's clearly the villain, even from the beginning, despite the other characters’ apparent confusion on the matter - and in spite of the less than eloquent prose it's actually extremely engrossing. Before Clarke realizes it, she's over halfway through the book.

"If your feet are cold, we can get another blanket."  
  
Clarke looks up, bewildered by Lexa's comment, to find her looking at her with an amused eyebrow quirked. Only then does she realize that over the course of the last hour, she has gradually stretched out her legs until her bare feet had wedged their way under Lexa's thigh.

"Ah, sorry, I didn't notice..." Clarke retracts her feet several inches, wrapping them back into the blanket as she goes. "They tend to get colder than the rest of me, but I'm fine."

"Here," Lexa says, and starts to move the remains of the food and drink to one side. She then scoots a little closer, and pushes out the side of her blanket so it drapes over the place Clarke's feet have settled under her own blanket. "That should help. Two blankets are always better than one."

"Oh so I can't share my blanket, but you can share yours?" Clarke means it as a joke, but once again that look of confusion and discomfort crosses Lexa's face. "Lexa, I'm teasing. Thank you."

That reassurance causes Lexa to relax again, and she smiles a little. "I'm the Commander," she says, but there's a carefulness to it - like she's trying out the joke for the first time. "That means I can do what I like."

Clarke tries to hold back a smile but ultimately Lexa attempting a joke - a _joke_ \- is just too amusing. "I thought you were taking a break from your duties today, _Commander_."

"My duties," Lexa confirms, picking up the wine skin and giving it a waggle. "Not my privileges."

“Oh I see. How convenient.” Clarke wiggles her feet back closer to Lexa, still wrapped in her blanket and covered by Lexa’s, but nonetheless her toes are decidedly back under the other woman’s thigh. “Well as _Wanheda,_ I’m asserting my privilege to use you as a toe warmer.”

Lexa's eyebrow goes back up, and her thigh tenses for a moment. Just as Clarke thinks she might pull back, however, she relaxes again. It is perhaps a trick of the firelight, but she thinks her cheeks warm a little too. "I was not aware that title came with such a privilege."

Clarke is relieved, even if she isn’t quite sure why. “Oh yeah, it comes with lots of privileges. No one told you about this?”

"Evidently not." Lexa puts the wine skin down and picks up her book instead. "Are there any others I should know about?"

“The most pertinent one is that I get to know what you think of the book you’re reading.”

"I don't know that I would call that a privilege..."

Clarke inclines her head, a serious expression overtaking her face. “I think it is. Knowing your thoughts is a unique privilege.”

A wry smirk quirks Lexa's lips.  
  
"I suppose few people have that opportunity..." she says quietly, more to herself than to Clarke, then lifts the book to examine it. "I like it. It shares a setting with others I've read - large dresses, lavish palaces, mysterious and wealthy men with dark pasts. But there is certainly something more...sinister to it."

Clarke eyes the book in her own hands. “The book I’m reading could definitely be described as sinister too. Do you like that about yours? Or do you prefer the more - convoluted optimism, I guess, of _Pride and Prejudice?"_

"That sort of optimism has a time and a place," Lexa answers, flipping through the pages, "and is helped by the witty dialogue and clever narration. But I think that, most of the time..." she puts the book down and focuses on Clarke again, "I prefer something heavier. Either in subject matter or in plot."

“Really?” Clarke closes her own book and settles in, pleased despite herself to have Lexa’s attention. “So what’s your favorite book, then?”

"There are a few," comes the somewhat predictable answer. Lexa's eyes dip lower, to the book in her hand, and back up. "You have already read one of them."

“The Hemingway novel you gave me?”

Lexa nods. " _For Whom the Bell Tolls._ It may not be the most...complex construction of characters in the library," she says, looking around as though to indicate the building around them, "but the depiction of war, of the way it affects us...it rings true. In my experience, at least."

Clarke elects to bypass questioning Lexa about Hemingway’s extremely annoying depictions of women. For the moment. “It felt true to me, too. In some ways, anyway. I’ve never felt like war is honorable, but the way the characters deal with the experience of war when it’s all over...” Clarke shrugs. “That felt real. Dramatized, but. Real.”

Clarke feels Lexa's weight shift, her leg pressing down on Clarke’s feet as she crosses her ankle over her knee. "The fight itself is...messy, and terrible,” she says. “But the sacrifice - knowing that all the blood, the sweat, the pain and anguish, is for something? And not for some political ideology, but for real, breathing people?"  
  
Her voice trails off, her eyes lost in the middle distance. After a moment Lexa returns to herself, and looks at Clarke. "It is not perfect, but it feels as though the creator understood the gravity of it. In a way that I cannot fully explain myself."

Clarke leans her head against the back cushion of the couch and watches Lexa. The way her eyes fade away into memory and return again to refocus on Clarke’s own - green eyes widening and softening in the same instant, as if she forgot she was there. Lexa may have the benefit of losing herself in painful memories of war and killing and returning again, all without the physical and mental effects that afflict Clarke, but that comes with a price. The price of violence as not a singular, life altering event, but as a part of normal life.  
  
“I’m not convinced Hemingway should be on my list of favorite authors, but seeing as you made a compelling argument - and this is your day off - I’ll resist the urge to poke holes in your reading of him,” Clarke winks. “Call it my contribution to this day of relaxation.”

Lexa chuckles. She _chuckles_. She turns her head away a moment - for once Clarke can see her teeth when she smiles - and she chuckles.  
  
"I appreciate your generosity," she says, and swings an arm back to rest her elbow on the back of the couch. "But since you're so high and mighty - what is your favorite book?"

Clarke grins. “Have you read _Macbeth?_ By Shakespeare?”

Green eyes tip up to the right as she thinks. "That...is one of his dialogues?" Lexa asks, and that is answer enough.

“Yes, I think his most famous - aside from _Romeo and Juliet,_ of course. Which, I have to admit, I also really like. Though not for the reasons most other people seem to.” Clarke realizes her feet are now decidedly at least half beneath Lexa’s leg and they’re far closer than they were when this reading session began, but the other woman doesn’t seem to have noticed and Clarke isn’t about to draw attention to it. “It’s sort of a made up history, about power and ambition and the inevitable folly of it all. And it has my favorite character I’ve ever read, the insatiable Lady Macbeth. I’ll find it for you before we go, if you like. You must have it here, and I have a feeling taking books out of the library is another one of those privileges you were talking about.”

"That is indeed one of the privileges I was talking about," Lexa grins. "I built the place, no one will be more careful with its contents than I."  
  
As the grin on her face settles into a more muted smile, Lexa considers her summary. "Insatiable," she repeats, almost wistfully. "What a way to describe a woman."

“An insatiable appetite for power, maybe is more accurate. Somehow impressive and tragic at the same time. I’d tell you the whole story, but I don’t want to ruin it.”

"I appreciate the impulse," Lexa answers, "as I am already persuaded. It sounds like a fine story."

With conversation dwindling, the two return to their books. The next few hours are broken up by amiable, intermittent chatting, but most of their time sees the noses of both women buried in their respective books. And Clarke's toes buried under Lexa's thigh.  
  
Eventually, the silence is broken not by a stray comment, but by the rumble of a stomach. Lexa looks down at hers sheepishly. "I wasn't able to sneak enough out for dinner..." she says haltingly. The bread and cheese lay spent beside them, only crumbs and an empty wrapper left.

Clarke glances up through a window on the opposite side of the room and is surprised to see that the sun is already setting. Had they really been sitting here all day?  
  
The map she’s spent so much time focused on comes to mind, and Clarke remembers a few of the smaller settlements within the city limits but still very much on the edge. That would have to be far enough that Lexa wouldn’t be recognized, and she saw a few places during her explorations that looked like taverns.  
  
“Do you have to be back? Because if you don’t, I have an idea...” Clarke explains her, admittedly only half thought out, plan to Lexa. “I don’t know how you’d feel if you were recognized somewhere like that,” she finishes, “but it might give us a few more hours of freedom. If you’re up for it.”

The gears are visibly turning behind Lexa’s eyes. "There are few who would recognize me in the city without my helm or pauldron, and I cannot imagine those who would often patronize establishments that far out. And if it means not having to return..." For a brief moment, she looks a little disappointed in herself. "Why didn't I think of that?"

“You’ve been cooped up too long!” Clarke pulls her feet, somewhat reluctantly, from beneath Lexa and begins putting her boots back on. “This is why you need a break. Hangout with us more debased folk.”

"Oh?" Lexa cocks an eyebrow again as she closes her book and begins to put her things away. "Do you mean to say you've spent time at these taverns before?"

“Well no. I’ve never been to a tavern, actually. But the parties I was talking about that we used to throw on the Ark were a similar experience, I’m sure. I have a feeling I have an easier time letting loose than you.” Clarke points at the book still on the table, untouched, in Trigedasleng. “Could I abuse your privileges and take that back with me? I promise it won’t leave my room.”

"Everyone is a critic," Lexa mutters, and sits forward to look at the title. "You want this to help you learn Trigedasleng?"

“Yes, if you don’t mind. It seems like a skill I should make an effort to improve.” Clarke adjusts the hood over her jacket again and meets Lexa’s eyes. “And for the record, it wasn’t a criticism. This is just one of those few things that I’m more experienced at. But you’ll be a pro in no time.”

Lexa doesn't answer that; she just offers a smile that doesn't reach her eyes and stands up.  
  
"If that's the case, would you prefer a copy of a book that has been translated?" She asks, picking up the book in front of Clarke. "We have a few copies of this account, so there would be little harm in taking it out. But you will not have anything to compare it to."

“Sure, that's a better idea.” Clarke sighs. Just when she thinks she’s managed to put Lexa in a good mood, she does or says something that pushes Lexa back into her head. And yet, Clarke increasingly feels the need to coax her back out. “Something I’ve read many times...I’m almost loathe to say it, but you have _Pride and Prejudice_ translated, don’t you?”

"It...is possible that it has been translated, yes," Lexa says, in a way that makes Clarke think she one hundred percent knows that it has been. "We can check for it on the way out. And you can have access to the library at any time now, if you would like to come back for this one."

Clarke stretches her hips out, pushing them right and then more aggressively to the left. Sitting in one place for hours at a time aches in a very particular sort of way. “I feel honored! I’m sure I’ll make my way back. But for now, why don’t you find a translated copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ that we both know is here somewhere, and I’ll find _Macbeth_. Meet by the front?”

"I'll see you there."  
  
It takes somewhere around ten minutes for Clarke to find her way to the right shelf, and then a few more pawing through copied tomes to find one that had the full play in it. She eventually comes across a collection of Shakespeare's more popular tragedies, and takes it off the shelf to bring to Lexa.  
  
The Commander has to check in with an older woman by the front before they leave, both the translated copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ and the collection in her hands. Clarke gathers that the woman is making a note of what books and which copies are leaving, and then Lexa tucks them both away in her bag.  
  
"I will carry them both for now," she says, pulling her scarf up over her head again. "Where to?"  
  
"Right this way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the apocalypse, it's the books with the most copies that survive.
> 
> Also - what was that? It's almost Pride, you say? *cranks the queer-o-meter up another notch* Useless Lesbian Lexa and Bi Disaster Clarke Modes fully engaged.
> 
> P.S. A little N.K. Jemisin Easter Egg. No, those books were not out when the apocalypse canonically happened. Also no, we do not care.


	10. Bring a Heda to a Bar Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: minor violence, alcohol
> 
> (Spoiler: it's a bar fight.)

It takes Clarke a moment to orient herself once she steps outside, and she briefly wishes she had somehow known to bring her map with her to training this morning. Using the position of the tower as an anchoring point, however, she is able to estimate her location and sets them on their way.  
  
The main avenues have been cleared, but whenever they turn down a side street or an alley Clarke's boots sink through an inch of snow. It's still a new experience, especially now that the snow has been given time to warm in the sun and refreeze over the span of an evening; the top layer crunches beneath her feet where it hasn't been previously disturbed. She and Lexa walk side by side through the gathering dark, their hands stuffed deep in the pockets of their too-light jackets and their breath puffing out in clouds before them.

They pass a few likely suspects before picking a door set into a building that looks like any other home on the street, save for the wooden sign posted outside. Painted Trigedasleng letters declare it to be the Hanged Man, and a few Grounders in layers huddle around, mittened hands wrapped around metal cups as they talk in low tones. They pay Lexa and Clarke little mind as they step around them and head inside.  
  
The interior is raucous compared to the street outside, clusters of Grounders grouped at tables that are scattered around a central, roaring hearth. The ceiling is open to the darkening sky to let the smoke of the fire out, a slit about a foot wide and spanning the length of the hearth; the stones beneath it are wet with what must have once been fallen snow. Over the fire, a massive cauldron simmers away, filling the room with a warm and inviting smell. Spotting an open table in a far corner, Clarke goes to stake out a claim while Lexa approaches a counter crowded with hanging vegetables and cured meats, behind which a heavy old man stands in front of a mixture of wooden and steel kegs. Everyone here is speaking Trigedasleng; better to let her deal with ordering.

Clarke can only see Lexa’s back, but can tell by the way she leans on the bar and pushes her shoulders back that she’s more at ease here than Clarke would have expected. That realization reminds her of just how unexpected and, specifically, how unexpectedly _easy_ this day has been. Normally being with Lexa is stressful, in at least one way - talking politics, discussing the finer points of military plans, even debating the merits of books and poems. It so often feels like a battle, at times subtle and at others...less so.  
  
But today didn’t feel that way. Today felt like they were just two people, sharing the same space. Two people who were _comfortable enough_ to share the same space. And it’s that realization that compels Clarke to press her elbows onto the table and twirl her thumbs, causing her to be uncharacteristically unobservant for just a few moments - which is just enough time for Lexa to put two cups on the table in front of them and physically startle Clarke from her thoughts.

"Apologies, Clarke," Lexa says, looking almost as surprised as Clarke is. She sits down across from her, stepping over the bench in order to do so. "I did not mean to startle you - is everything alright?"

Clarke physically shakes her head a little, as if that will somehow rid her of distracting thoughts. “Yes, sorry. I was just thinking, about today. About how nice it’s been.” She eyes the contents of the cup that Lexa scoots toward her, decidedly ignoring the way that admission makes her face feel warm. “Hopefully that continues...what am I drinking?”

"Some kind of ale, I believe," Lexa answers, giving her own cup a sniff. "I did not ask too many questions; our host was not particularly interested in answering them."

Clarke chuckles. “Probably for the best. It doesn’t seem like many people are speaking English here either...”

Lexa turns to survey the room. "That...does seem to be the case," she says. "A development I did not take into account, but an unsurprising one." She sits forward, shortening the space between them. "All the more reason for you to practice your Trigedasleng."

Clarke can feel the surprise - and quickly concealed anxiety - express itself on her face. “I...guess that’s a good idea.” Despite her initial reaction, it does seem to be a good idea. She was serious about wanting to know the language, and what better way to practice than to speak it. “ _Sha, Leksa. Yumi tri_.”

Lexa grins. "Let's try, indeed," she says, and switches to Trigedasleng. " _You said you had a good day?"_

“ _Did I?"_ Clarke smiles, hoping to convey that she’s teasing. “ _That...book...store?"_ Lexa instantly supplies the word for library, but this might be harder than she expected. “ _Yes, that library. I loved it, I’ve never seen anything like it. I could spend days there, I think. So yes, I had a good day. Thank you for letting me come along_.”

Lexa inclines her head. " _Thank you,_ " she answers. " _It was nice to_..." she pauses, her eyes rolling up to the right as she rethinks her phrasing. " _Not be alone. Did you like your book?"_

“ _I did! It was_...” Clarke attempts the word she thinks means something like ‘fast.’ Lexa frowns and Clarke tries again. “ _It was quick, like the story moved quickly. It wasn’t my favorite, but it’s nice to read something new._ ”  
  
Because she’s thirsty, and to give herself time to think of how to form her next sentence, Clarke sips the ale from the mug in front of her. Her nose instantly scrunches up, not out of disgust exactly but from a total lack of recognition. “ _This tastes like...I don’t know, like bread?"_

Lexa grins. " _It is made from_..." she thinks better of it, and says, "yeast" in English. " _So you are not wrong. Is it okay?"_

Clarke sips the drink again. The more she drinks it, the more she doesn’t hate it. Which she does her best to convey, but it comes out more like: “ _I do don’t dislike like it_.” Clarke makes an angry sound in the back of her throat. Why is this so hard? But she isn’t so frustrated that she can’t appreciate the frankly adorable look of bafflement on Lexa’s face.  
  
“I like it better the more I drink it,” Clarke explains in English.

"Is Trigedasleng proving to be too much of a challenge for the moment?" Lexa hums, cocking an amused eyebrow.

“No, no. I can do it.” Clarke clears her throat and does her best to focus. “ _Do you normally drink ale? Or is this a...normal people drink?"_ She would’ve said “peasant,” as a joke, if she’d known the word. Trigedasleng is really hindering her sass abilities.

" _It is easier to make,_ " Lexa says, and it's not not an agreement. She looks at the contents of her cup as she continues, " _The ingredients are easier to come by, and it does not take as long as wine to make. But, as always, what you drink is up to you_."

Clarke tries the drink again and finds herself taking more of a gulp than a sip. It really is growing on her. " _It's typical that I would like the less_..." Clarke thinks for a moment. " _Fa_ _ncy?_ _Refined?"_ Lexa nods in understanding. " _Right, it's typical that I would more quickly like the less refined drink option. Though, I did really like_ \- whiskey." She can't even attempt the word in Trigedasleng, having no frame of reference for what it could be. " _I hope you aren't really upset with Helena and I for taking it. It seemed like a good idea at the time_."

Lexa just rolls her eyes. " _She is my sister,_ " she says, " _but there is much that she does that_..." She sighs, and adds in English, "irritates me." And switches back. " _There is much we cannot do anymore that we used to, and she does not want to see that_."

" _I d_ _on't have a sister,_ " getting Lexa talking is proving useful for learning words - sister, for example, " _but I think she is worried about you. She wants you to be happy. Maybe she doesn't know another way to help make you happy than_..." Clarke can't help but smile when she realizes that she has no idea how to convey 'exasperating you.' " _Than poking you,_ " she finally finishes, physically poking Lexa's arm to drive her likely unclear point home. Lexa rubs the place she touches, and seems to get the gist. " _I hear that's what sisters do_."

A young man appears then, and sets down bowls of steaming hot stew between them. Lexa thanks him, and picks up the chunk of bread sticking out of the side of hers.  
  
" _You are not wrong,_ " she says again, and allows another small smile to cross her face. She begins to tear her bread into smaller chunks, letting the pieces drop into the mixture. " _I_ _n that case, it is also unsurprising that I am the one who got in trouble for it._ "

Clarke mimics Lexa's actions, following her lead and ripping the bread into smaller chunks. "That's what being in charge gets you - blame for everything." Lexa raises an eyebrow at her use of English and Clarke shrugs, a little sheepish. "I can't focus on eating and speaking in Trigedasleng. It's hard enough when I don't have hot soup to contend with."

"Fair enough," Lexa nods, "I suppose I can forgive you for your lapse if it means you do not end up burning yourself.  
  
"All of which is to say," she goes on, turning back to the subject at hand, "I am not actually angry at her for taking the bottle. Nor at you, for that matter. It is only its status as one in a series of things that upset me. That..." she pops a chunk of dipped bread into her mouth, and pushes it to the side so she can say around it, "and Tera was furious with me."

Clarke chuckles. “I’d suggest you blame me, but Tera is the source of most of my meals - and I already have to work for them. I think you’ll have to take the fall for this one.”  
  
The soup is thick and though it is scalding hot, Lexa’s warning prepared her. After the shock of heat, it’s actually quite good. Surprisingly hearty for a soup and full of what tastes like potatoes and some kind of fish. “Helena will be gone in a few days, I assume at least till the end of winter,” Clarke says around a particularly large piece of bread. If she ever had very good manners, they’ve all but disappeared since she came to earth - at least when it comes to food. Suddenly having no knowledge of when your next meal will be will do that to a person. “I’m sure you can survive that long without pestering each other to death.”

"I should hope so," Lexa says. She pauses to blow on a spoonful. "Not only will she likely be helpful in terms of dealing with the Sky People, but I am certain that on the very day she leaves I will already be looking forward to her return in the spring. As I usually do."

Helena trying to argue with Bellamy, and he trying to convince her. Clarke grins at the thought. That would make for an entertaining scene, but she isn’t as confident as Lexa seems to be that Helena would come out the victor.  
  
“She’ll return in the spring?” Clarke asks instead. “Why?”

"There is another celebration." Lexa picks up her cup and takes a drink from it. "Just as the first fall of snow cuts off our contact with each other, the first thaw restores it. It is a much less political event, as not everywhere thaws at the same time and not everyone can make that journey again, but there are a few clans that will send delegations to celebrate with us."

A thought that's somehow never occurred to Clarke occurs to her now, and she puts down her spoon. "How long does winter usually last?"

"Somewhere around a hundred days," Lexa says, "Give or take. I often forget that these are not things that you would know."

"Which means soon, I won't be able to travel. So I'll have to either stay here, or go back with Bellamy. For a hundred days." Lexa doesn't respond to that with anything other than a slight nod, as if she'd already thought of this long before Clarke had. "I can't imagine that's the only reason for his visit, but that would explain why he's coming so quickly."

"Your people are protective of you, Clarke." The Commander pushes her bowl away from her a little ways, and folds her hands in front of her on the table.  
  
"Your Chancellor has been doing good work; preparing your people for winter, organizing and bartering to collect what she does not have on hand. She has done much to set aside the animosity that remains after my decision at the Mountain." For a moment, that wound flares up again. Lexa's jaw flexes as though she can feel it too, but she pushes on. "But I believe that she has been operating in your shadow. And I would not be surprised if your friends told you as much."

"In my shadow?" Clarke frowns. "What do you mean by that?"

"That your people miss you." Lexa's eyes don't waver from hers, her words matter of fact. "Abigail is a good leader, but she is not you."

"I miss them, too." Clarke runs a hand absently through her hair and sighs. "I needed to be away, but I can't deny that I miss them. Or the responsibility that I feel to go back. I'm just no longer sure where I'll be the most help to them, and how selfish I can keep allowing myself to be."

Lexa raises an eyebrow. "Selfish?" she prompts.

Clarke's mouth curves down in another frown, surprised at herself yet again for speaking without thinking. "Yes, selfish. Leaving when I did was necessary, but I can't deny that there were selfish motivations. And if I chose to stay here..." she imagines the impossible conversation that would entail, and that's just if Bellamy comes alone - if Octavia comes with him... "well, it will be difficult to negotiate that. Especially if what you say is true."

A momentary flash of surprise crosses Lexa's face. "Do you think you will?" she asks. "Want to stay?"

The whole truth is that Clarke hasn't thought about it. She never expected to stay for an extended period of time, but has yet to make any effort to act on it. Her actions haven't exactly been in line with her insistence on leaving, and this is the first time she's allowed herself to consider why that might be. And if it changes anything.  
  
Clarke tilts her head and says, teasing, "Am I invited?"

Lexa's cheeks become burnished with a light pink color, and she glances away. "You are," she says, her eyes returning as though she has determined to power through her answer. "I had, at times, hoped you would. I think it will be helpful to have a voice here to speak for the Sky People in the next few months.  
  
"That being said, I would not presume to ask you to do so. I have already asked much of you, and you have not been with your people - your friends - in months. I am certain that you miss them."

"I am excited to see them," Clarke admits, "even if it is just Bellamy that arrives tomorrow. But it seems we have come to the same idea. After speaking with the other clan chiefs and seeing what good I can do - and how much faster I can do it - if I have immediate access to them, staying here seems worth considering. Even if it is just their ambassadors who will be here. And now that I know many of the chieftains will return when winter is over...that would give me an opportunity to cement whatever negotiations I make in their absence.  
  
"Besides, I'm starting to like Polis." Clarke grins. "Arkadia certainly doesn't have a library. Or taverns."

"Don't they?" Lexa asks, but there's little question that she knows this quite well. She picks up her cup and, from around its rim, says, "And you say I don't know how to have fun."

"I take it back. You do know how to have fun, the maybe once a year you allow yourself to do so." Clarke takes another gulp of her drink and is surprised to find it empty. It took much less time to finish than the whiskey had - or the wine, for that matter. "Though you're lucky I like books. I have a feeling Helena might not consider how we spent our day 'fun.'"

"I can hear her comments already," Lexa mutters to herself. She's in the midst of putting her cup down again when she picks it up reflexively, her voice turning to normal volume as she looks at Clarke and says, "Though, to be fair, I was the only one who needed to like books. You were not technically part of the original plan."

"You know, I'm surprised you chose today to run off," Clarke muses, swirling the remaining drops of liquid in her cup in thought, "if you're so sure I'll be leaving with Bellamy when he arrives."  
  
When Clarke realizes what she's said, it's her cheeks that turn the littlest bit pink. "Anyway, I would apologize for interrupting your day, but I'm honestly not sorry if that's what it took to know there's an honest to god library in this city." She clears her throat and stands, a little faster than intended. "Do you need another drink?"

"I can, if you need one." Lexa, too, stands up a little too fast. "Would you like me to get it? I don't mind."

Clarke's instinct is to insist on leaving - the table, Lexa's gaze, this situation - but she swallows that impulse. "It may make more sense if you go. I think I know enough Trigadesleng that I could order, but it still may sound odd."

"A fair point." Lexa grins, and pulls one leg back over the bench. "That, and you don't have anything to buy it with."

Clarke unconsciously touches the pockets of her jacket, as if money will magically appear there. "Wow, you're right. That..." she chuckles at herself. "Another thing that I don't know, but should: how to use money."

Lexa quirks a smile at her. "We'll work on it," she says, and slips through the crowd once more.  
  
When a second round is brought, they resume their dinner in earnest. The stew has cooled by then, allowing Clarke a bit more concentration on a renewed attempt at speaking Trigedasleng. Even so, both she and Lexa continue to slip back into English intermittently, and before long, someone else notices.  
  
"Ha!" A man dressed in furs picks himself up from the table next to theirs, and plops himself into the seat beside Clarke. His hair and beard are tangled, and he smells heavily of the ale all three of them have in their cups. "Speak English, _sha?"_

Clarke's mood darkens, her muscles tensing as soon as the man's bulk unceremoniously hits the bench beside her. She'd grown so used to being around Lexa, and the few people she'd befriended in the tower, that she hasn't felt defensive or on edge in days. But the survival instincts she's developed over the last few months surface instantly at the man's arrival and she responds curtly, practically through her teeth, "Some."

"I learn!" He says, grinning. "Listen?" He clears his throat dramatically and puts a hand on his chest before pronouncing, "...fuck. Cock. Pussy. Shit."  
  
Lexa's eyebrow goes up. "This is rich," she mutters.  
  
"Asshole. Fucker." His dramatic persona fades into something a bit more lecherous as his eyes settle on Clarke again. He reaches out to touch her hair. "Pretty..."  
  
" _Shotop_." Lexa snaps, going from repulsed to angry in no time flat. Her eyes move from his hand, frozen in mid reach, to his face. " _Do not touch her_."  
  
He looks baffled. " _But she is_ pretty," he says, mostly in Trigedasleng.

“Why don’t you drink your ale somewhere else.” It’s clearly not a request, but the man smiles at Clarke in that same way and his hand moves toward her again. It gets no more than a centimeter before she grabs it, her grip iron. She presses on the inside of his wrist with severe force. The skin on his hand begins to turn white within seconds. “Didn’t you hear her? Don’t. Touch me.”

The man twists his wrist to get it free, but to no avail; Clarke's fingers only dig in deeper. " _Ow! Ow, hey!"_  
  
The commotion draws attention from the man's previous table, where another two men are sitting. One of them stands and steps closer. " _What's going on?"_ He asks in Trigedasleng.  
  
" _You should collect your friend,_ " Lexa answers in kind, indicating the man across from her with a nod. " _He has outstayed his welcome_."

Clarke shoves the man’s wrist forward, surprising him enough that the bench wobbles slightly. “Yes, he has.”

" _My welcome??"_ The man surges to his feet and turns on Clarke, confusion and pain turning into anger. " _Who are you, you little--_ "  
  
He pulls his hand back, but Clarke doesn't even have time to flinch. She feels the table shove forward into her chest because of the speed at which Lexa stands - and with a crack, slams her fist right into the side of the drunkard's face. He stumbles backwards, confusion written across his face once more. She looks at Clarke.  
  
"I had it," Clarke has just enough time to say, Lexa meeting her indignant glare with a raised eyebrow, before all hell breaks loose.  
  
" _You little shit!!"_ The man roars, and flips the table on his way to Lexa, who jumps back. His friend standing at the other table comes at Clarke, as the third nearly falls over his chair attempting to get to his feet.

The man coming at Clarke throws his weight toward her and she crouches, his fist passing several inches over her head. Momentum carries him forward, his legs hitting her side. She grunts, nearly stumbling, but she catches herself and he falls headfirst over her into a pile of firewood.  
  
That should keep him occupied for at least a few seconds. Clarke uses the time to get back on her feet. She has to stop herself from grabbing the knife at her back and instead forces her arms up defensively, the logical part of her brain just managing to override her instincts. These men are assholes, but that doesn’t mean they deserve to die. Not yet, anyway.  
  
She scans the room for the other two. One is still pushing himself off the ground from tripping over his own feet and the other has found Lexa.

Lexa has hopped up on the bench to escape a grab by him, and in the same motion snatches up her half full cup of ale. She throws that in his face, sending him reeling onto his back foot and his hands up in his face; she then takes that as an opportunity to land a sharp snap kick to the soft part of his side, followed by a full roundhouse kick to his temple. Between that and the drinks he's had, the guy goes down like a sack of bricks.  
  
Allowing the momentum of her kick to carry her, Lexa spins around on her perch, eyes frantically searching for: "Clarke!"  
  
Spotting her on the other side of the wood pile, Lexa grits her teeth, winds up, and sends her empty cup flying into the side of the second man's head.

Clarke doesn’t even turn around to be sure the cup hits him - she’s confident in Lexa’s aim. Instead she focuses on the third one, who by now has picked himself up and lunges toward her. Her fingers itch to grab at her knife but she resists, growling in frustration as she instead follows Lexa’s lead and grabs her now empty bowl. It smashes into the side of his head and he grunts and stumbles, but still manages to grab onto Clarke’s jacket. His body weight pulling down on her forces Clarke off her feet and pitches her forward. She topples over the man and manages to kick him in the chin before hitting the ground, rolling to a stop as her side smacks the legs of another table.

She can see, for just a moment, the look of worry on Lexa's face before she narrowly dodges her cup, which comes flying back at her and disappears across the room. Those who weren't paying attention before certainly are now.  
  
The Commander drops back off the bench then, and there is no question; in her eyes, the Lexa of earlier is nowhere to be seen. This is the Commander, in all her deadly ability.  
  
She settles back into a fighting stance, circling the man who has now crossed the fallen table. His fists are up and ready, and it looks like he's a bit more sober than the last one was. He takes a few swings at Lexa, who ducks beneath them. The third she knocks to the side, and answers with a punch to the face. Dazed, he's left open for a kick to the side, and then she grabs him by the shoulders and yanks him down to knee him in the diaphragm.  
  
It's as she turns around to check on the third man that she sees him regain his feet and turn his sights on Clarke. Lexa's eyes go wide. She moves to attack him, but before she can - he drops to the ground once more. Clarke’s wide sweep to the man’s legs was enough to surprise him and he topples back over. She wastes no time in rolling under the table, kneeling beneath it, and shoving it as hard and fast as she can up and forward into him even as he tries to haul himself up.  
  
It has the intended effect: the table smacks him on the head with a crunch and the man crumples to the ground, still and...yes, thankfully breathing. Clarke herself takes a deep breath of relief - she really hadn’t woken up this morning hoping to kill anyone - but sucks it right back in when she turns back to find Lexa. She’s just in time to see the man Lexa had been fighting rush up and grab her from behind, locking his arms under and around each of her shoulders and pinning her arms up behind her head.

She looks like a wild cat, a murderous snarl twisting her lips as her assailant tries to lift her backwards off her feet. Her legs kick up in an attempt to throw off his weight, but he hangs tight; she lets out a frustrated shout as her feet touch the floor again.  
  
In that moment, she catches sight of what's in Clarke's hand, and meets her eye. The grin that crosses Lexa's lips then has a wicked glint to it and, stomping down hard on the second man's foot, she turns to water in his hands. As he howls his surprised pain, she puts her arms up and suddenly drops her weight, slipping right out from under his grip. As her knees hit the ground, he is left with her jacket in his hands and his face exposed.

The few seconds of struggle were exactly what Clarke needed to wind up and put all her strength behind her throw, and her effort is rewarded: the much heavier metal cup smashes into the man’s face. His nose erupts in blood and he yells in pain, staggering backward several steps.

Lexa is already on her feet again. "Come on," she says to Clarke, reaching down to help her up. Even when Clarke is back on her feet, Lexa doesn't let go of her hand and Clarke has just enough time to snatch up their bag with the other before they start running.  
  
" _Sorry about the mess!"_ Lexa calls to the barkeep, tossing what Clarke thinks is a handful of coins in their wake as they sprint for the door. They skirt tables, burst into the night, and run several more blocks until they're certain they have gotten away.

“Stop! Lexa, stop.”  
  
Lexa halts instantly and looks back at her, concern in her eyes, but Clarke’s breathlessness has nothing to do with pain or fear. She’s laughing, only able to get a word or two out between giggles. “Stop, we’re — far enough away.  
  
“That was...fun!” Clarke laughs again at the smile that comes to Lexa’s face. “So kind of you to defend my honor.” She shifts Lexa’s bag on her shoulder and winces. Between the one man falling over her and careening into a stout, wooden table, the muscles in Clarke’s side are decidedly bruised.

"I'm sorry! I wasn't thinking, I just sort of..." Even as Lexa starts speaking, she's beginning to chuckle; before long, the redness in her face isn't just thanks to exertion and the sting of the cold air. She's laughing just as hard as Clarke.  
  
The two fall back against an alley wall, shoulder to shoulder as the mirth takes them. Only after their abdomens ache from it does it finally begin to subside.  
  
"That was truly stupid of me," Lexa says eventually, still breathless and pink in the face as she turns to Clarke, resting against the wall with one shoulder. "Are you alright? Were you hurt?"

“I’m fine! My side is a little bruised, but it’s just the muscle.” Clarke stretches to the left a little, testing it. “Nothing too bad.” She looks back over at Lexa and her grin turns down into a worried frown. The other woman has a cut, thin but nearly an inch long on her right cheekbone. “How did that happen?” Before she can think, her hand moves up to touch Lexa’s face gingerly, her fingertips ghosting over the shallow cut. “I didn’t see any of them hit you. Does it hurt? It doesn’t look deep, but we should probably clean it...”

Lexa flinches under the contact, but she doesn't pull away. If anything, she goes very, very still - and Clarke swears she can feel her skin grow a little warmer, her breath pause.  
  
"I think I caught it on the buckle of that last one's bracer on the way down," she says, her eyes sheepishly dropping off to one side. Clarke recalls the leather the second man had wrapped around one forearm. Lexa reaches up to gingerly prod the spot herself. "I did not feel it at the time, though...I'm sure it's fine."

Clarke drops a hand back to her side with a small sigh. She hadn’t really intended to touch the other woman, but Lexa’s penchant for flinching away leaves an ache in her chest that rivals the one in her side.  
  
“Well I have ointments and things in my room, we can clean it up there. Elena left them when my knee was still healing.” Clarke’s smile returns, and she shakes her head a little at herself. “I was too stubborn to use them at the time, of course, but I’m sure it will prove useful.”

"Are you certain?" Lexa asks, her eyes flashing back up to Clarke's. "I would not want to impose--"

“It’s no imposition,” Clarke waves her hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise.” Of course, her room is, despite Elena’s and she’s sure a variety of serving hand’s best efforts, not exactly tidy. But she made the offer, and she doesn’t retract it. “The real trick will be getting there without anyone stopping us.”

"That is true," Lexa says, pausing to pull her scarf up over her head. "But I have a plan for that. Just stick close to me, and try not to be seen."  
  
The need for stealth is not immediate, but the need for speed is; neither woman is dressed well for cold weather - Lexa even less so, now that she has lost her jacket - and with the sun down the temperature has dropped. They move quickly through the interior of the city as their breath clouds before them, and a light snowfall begins to gather on their heads.  
  
As they grow closer to the tower, however, Lexa sticks to alleyways and shadow. She makes herself small, her footsteps light, and this time Clarke is ready. She follows her lead to a smaller door in the courtyard’s exterior wall, which she manages to open with a practiced hand and the side of a knife that she takes from her bag. That door leads them through to the training pitch, deserted now, and beyond to the foot of the tower.  
  
"I would not use what I am about to show you regularly," Lexa warns in a whisper, eyes practically reflective in the dark. Then she takes Clarke's hand and guides her a little further along the tower's base, near the alcove Clarke had found her in that morning. Nearby is a second alcove, larger than the first, and a second disguised door set into the wall there.  
  
Inside are what appear to be old service tunnels. Built, perhaps, by a Commander who was not so kind to their serving staff, the corridors are narrow, unlit, and unheated. Feeling almost colder than she was outside, Clarke sticks close as Lexa navigates the dust-covered floors to an old, less-grandiose lift. She throws a lever once they're both on, and it lurches into a slow, cold ascent.  
  
At the top are more service halls, more labyrinthine than the first. Clarke gets the sense that they span the interior of the tower, and it is only through practice that Lexa knows which staircase and which hidden door will return them to Clarke's floor.

"Wish I'd known about those last week," Clarke mutters. She takes the lead and guides them to her door. The floor is quiet, and the door they'd come out of isn't visible to the guards on either end of the hallway - though Clarke doubts they would try to stop them, even if they could see. Anyone who works in the tower would know Lexa on sight.  
  
The door to her room appears and Clarke hastily pushes it open, dragging Lexa in and closing it behind her. "Sit there," Clarke points to the chair closest to them, "and I'll grab the ointment." She heads to the bathroom but says over her shoulder, "Sorry about the mess. I've never been the most tidy and I think Elena has wisely given up."

"It's quite alright. I would be no different, if not for my assistants," Lexa says, but Clarke doesn't hear her move to the chair immediately. She can imagine her eyes moving across the room, cataloging everything. "Are you finding everything suitable?"

"Suitable doesn't seem to quite do it justice." Clarke picks through the ever growing pile of things near the sink and finds what she's looking for: a block of ointment. It looks exactly like bar soap, and Clarke would have mistaken it for just that if not for the handwritten label. She dampens a clean cloth and begins rubbing the bar of ointment between her hands, softening it up, as she walks back into the bigger room. "I'm almost concerned I'll get used to the luxury of it all."

She catches the quirk of Lexa's lips that draws out, and the Commander at last moves into the room. For once, Elena has not been able to read Clarke's mind; the fireplace burns at a low, sustaining ember, rather than its usual roaring heat. Lexa kneels in front of it, picking up a piece of wood from the pile at one side, and coaxes it back to life.  
  
"It is a bit absurd, isn't it?" she admits. "There are some days that I wish I were out in my tent, or sleeping beneath the stars. But then the winter winds come again, and I forget about that quite rapidly."

“I’m trying not to get too used to having a dry, warm place to sleep. It’s just that much more disappointing when you don’t have them. But I admit, it’s growing harder.” Clarke gestures at the chair she’d indicated earlier, though it’s fairly obvious which she’d meant - it’s the only one not piled with blankets. “I believe I told you to sit down.”

"You did," Lexa grins to herself. She pokes the fire a few more times, and the slow burning embers spark back into life. "But I have never been very good about listening to my healers."  
  
Nevertheless, apparently satisfied for now, she pulls her snow-damp scarf from her head and obeys. Taking the indicated seat, she folds the scarf and her hands in her lap and looks expectantly at Clarke. "Your orders?"

“Just sit still, if you can manage it.” Clarke kneels in front of Lexa and sets about cleaning the cut. It’s easy to lose herself in the work; as unpleasant as many of her crash courses in medicine have been, she does enjoy it.  
  
“That is not how I expected our evening to end, I have to admit,” Clarke says as she scrutinizes Lexa’s cheekbone. Clean as it’s going to get, she decides, and reaches for the bar of ointment now warming in her pocket. “Clearly I need to work harder on my Trigedasleng.”

"It is hardly your fault," Lexa says. "Some men just cannot hold their drink. In my experience, the very same cannot keep their hands to themselves."  
  
Despite her proclamation a moment ago, she holds herself very still beneath Clarke's ministrations. Her eyes angle up to the side, over Clarke's shoulder and away from her hands and face. "I do not think he knew enough women growing up."

"That's a good bet. Though I did have a good time kicking his ass, I think Ronnie would be proud of me." The ointment is soft enough that Clarke can scoop a bit of it up with her finger. She rubs it between her thumb and forefinger and lathers it gently into Lexa's skin.

Lexa flinches again, though this time it's clear that Clarke's touch has nothing to do with it: she winces, and sucks in her breath at the sting of the ointment. "I have never gotten used to that," she admits sheepishly. "But you should tell him, the next time you see him. I am sure he will enjoy the story."  
  
She is quiet for a moment as Clarke continues her work. In fact, the latter is so absorbed with it that she doesn't immediately notice that Lexa is now looking at her. "I am sorry, Clarke," she says quietly. "I should not have started that fight; it was reckless."

"I don't think you really started it." Clarke's eyes find Lexa's, and she smiles in a way that she hopes seems reassuring. "Besides, this was supposed to be a day for you to let loose and just be yourself. And yourself wanted to hit that asshole."

That draws another chuckle from Lexa - the second in one day. "Myself did," she says, looking down. "Myself did. No one should be allowed to treat a person that way. We were in a position to teach them that fact. Even so...we are lucky that they were not trained warriors, and did not come armed. I would not forgive myself if something had happened to you."  
  
That declaration is made so easily - as if it didn't carry the weight that it does, when the world they both inhabit treats death and injury as a regular part of daily life. But, as ever, Lexa's words are honest; spoken simply, but not lightly.

It makes Clarke feel a disparate range of emotions - her heart feels lighter, but her chest constricts. Her fingers and hands feel the need to reach out to Lexa, but her brain supplies confusion and empathy and that thin, ever-present thread of anger. She shakes her head and blinks several times, forcing the feelings back wherever they came from. How does this one woman manage to make her feel the full spectrum of emotion after a sentence?  
  
After a long pause, Clarke finally says, "I'm lucky you were there to protect me, then." She stands slowly, stretching out her knees from the prolonged kneeling as she goes. "That should heal fine, I doubt there will even be a scar. But don't go breaking it open again."

"Thank you. I will be sure to stay clear of anything that would." Lexa remains seated, looking up at Clarke with brows furrowed.  
  
"To be clear," she says eventually, "I do not think you needed protecting. There is little question that you would have found your own way out of there - one that likely did not require you to take on three drunken men at once."

"Perhaps. Certainly I would've had an easier time of it than you, I think it's clear which of us is more charming." Clarke offers her a small smile, hesitant but genuine. "But it wouldn't have been nearly as fun."  
  
Clarke rewraps the bar of ointment and heads back to the bathroom to stash it away. She sheds her jacket on her way back and tosses it haphazardly on the bed, adding to the ever growing pile of clothes, and crosses the room to add another small log to the fire. Lexa doesn't speak, but Clarke can feel her eyes on her back. "I think my favorite part about this room is the fire. I'd never even experienced one until coming to earth, and those were just for necessity." She turns and flops into her favorite chair. "I can't think of a greater luxury than fire purely for comfort's sake. Except maybe access to a library."

"Speaking of." Lexa is prompted then to grab her bag, which had been left nearby when they entered the room. Pulling the translated copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ from within it, she holds it out for Clarke to take.  
  
"I would have guessed this is your favorite spot to be," she says then, nodding to the piled furs on the ground in front of the chair. "It's evident that this is where you spend a lot of your time."

"I know. I warned you it would be messy." Clarke should probably feel more embarrassed about the state of her room than she does, but the truth is she's never had enough possessions to really make a mess, much less have to clean it up. "It's by far the best place to read, though." She glances up at Lexa, expecting disapproval. "I keep the books well away from the fire, I promise."

The expected rebuff never comes; Lexa just lifts a shoulder. "I trust you," she says, "and I can hardly blame you. There are few things I like more than sitting by the fire with something warm to drink and a good book in my hands. As long as you're mindful not to let the book drop by the fire for whatever reason, it's safe enough."

"Well I don't have anything warm to drink, but I do have whiskey..." Clarke waggles her eyebrows. "If you aren't still too upset with Helena and I for stealing it, and you aren't tired of reading yet, we could probably make that a reality."

Lexa grins a little at that. "You haven't tired of me yet?"

"I am rarely tired of you," is the instant response. Clarke's stomach flips at the admission. "Certainly you haven't done anything too infuriating today. Yet."

"Mm. Good to know I can get you injured in a bar fight, and have you still want to be around me." Lexa searches through the contents of her bag until she finds her book as well. "In that case, I see no reason why I shouldn't indulge in the thing that got me in trouble. Just don't tell Tera."

"I'd hardly call it injured..." Clarke mumbles, even as she rises from her chair more slowly than usual. "And I won't tell if you won't. Grab a few more blankets from the bed, and I'll grab a couple glasses."

Setting her book aside, Lexa stands to do as she's bid. Nevertheless, Clarke notices a moment's hesitation between the sound of her footsteps and the sound of rustling fabric.  
  
When she returns, her arms laden now with the cloth blankets, she eyes the pile of filched fur quizzically. "Clarke..." she says slowly, and looks up at her. "Have you ever slept in that bed?"

Clarke has grown so accustomed to her particular sleeping habits that it hadn't occurred to her that Lexa would find them odd. At first, sleeping anywhere but in that bed felt like a small act of rebellion against Lexa bringing her here. But now it’s about more than that. Her face grows hot and she grabs the blankets from the other woman's arms, eager to do something other than see what she's sure is a judgmental, or at least deeply confused, look on Lexa's face.  
  
"No," Clarke says after a few moments, "I haven't. I got so used to..." she exhales slowly. She shouldn't have to explain herself, but she's already started. "I feel safer, here." Not the whole truth, but not a lie. "Besides, that bed is absurdly huge. Way too big for one person. I'm confident if I got in it I'd never be able to find my way back out again."

"That...does seem unlikely..." she can't avoid hearing the confusion in Lexa's voice, and it is certainly there. But as she continues, it fades into something more diplomatic - understanding, even. "But if sleeping by the fire is your preference, I can have a bed roll brought up. That way you don't have to sleep on the floor, or in a..." Clarke can practically hear two and two clicking together, "...chair."

"I'm fine," Clarke snaps. She takes a deep breath and turns back to Lexa. That look of confusion is blatantly there, her green eyes searching Clarke's own in a clear effort to understand. "I'm sorry, thank you for the offer. But I'm fine, really. It's sort of a..." she struggles for the right word. She can't just tell Lexa everything, and she doesn't really want to. How making herself as small as possible feels more comfortable now. That even here, she sleeps better if she knows she could run or defend herself instantly after waking. How sleeping too deeply, which she would almost certainly do in that bed, brings nightmares.  
  
"It's just how I sleep now. It's no big deal." She reaches around Lexa and grabs the two glasses and bottle of whiskey. "Will you grab my book for me?"

Lexa still looks baffled, and the slightest bit wounded by the sharp answer, but she nods. "Of course."

They settle into the nest of blankets, each resting their backs against a chair. “I’m sorry,” Clarke says again. That hurt look on Lexa’s face is just annoyingly unbearable. “I know you were trying to help. I just...I want to trust you, and I’m getting there. But I’m going to need it to be okay if getting there happens slowly. Does that make sense?”

"Of course, Clarke. I can hardly begrudge you the time." Lexa settles into her seat and picks up the cup of whiskey Clarke has poured. She swirls it as she continues, "Forgive me for intruding - it was not my intent. But if I can help in any way..."

"I'll tell you." And Clarke's surprised to find that she means it.

The work of decoding a translated text - even one that she has read before - is slow going. Having a native speaker beside her who has also read the book, however, makes it easier; the comfortable silence that falls between them is punctuated every so often by spells of conversation, usually prompted by Clarke asking a question about a word or phrase. And as they chat, they drink - which in turn, makes those conversations even longer.  
  
Nevertheless, as the snow clouds outside break across a moonlit sky, Clarke finds her eyes growing heavy. She rubs them, presses her fingers against them, even rests them for a moment...but upon that last attempt, she finds herself jerking awake at the sound of Lexa closing her book.

"Did I fall asleep?" Lexa nods, a small, tired smile on her face. "How long was I out?"

"Only ten minutes or so," Lexa answers, and there's a certain fondness in her eyes. "Or at least, I only noticed it then. I have been busy revisiting the witches' scenes."

Clarke laughs. “I’ve been so busy asking you everything about Trigedasleng, I forgot I could easily help you with Shakespearean English. That is, if you need it.” She yawns and stretches her shoulders, already getting sore from sitting against the chair. “But it will probably have to wait until tomorrow.”

"Yes, I think so." Lexa looks and sounds just as tired as Clarke is, and she rolls one of her own shoulders as she stands. "Much more of this, and I think I will be joining you in that nap."

“I know, it’s hard to get through the first time. But I promise it’s worth it.” Clarke doesn’t even attempt to stand, just lays down where Lexa had been sitting and grabs the book of Shakespeare’s poems she keeps next to the pile of blankets. She twists her head around awkwardly to see Lexa packing her book back into her bag. “I know today won’t be repeated anytime soon, but I hope this isn’t the last time we do this. Reading, or fighting jerks in taverns, or...whatever else.”

"I...am glad to hear you say that," Lexa says, and the words are warm as they leave her mouth. She closes the top of her bag and swings it over her shoulder before wrapping her scarf around her neck. She turns then to meet her eyes. "Thank you, Clarke. For today, for..." she is uncharacteristically at a loss for specifics - or else has chickened out of saying what she had originally planned. "Everything. I had a wonderful day, all things considered."

"I'm glad to hear _you_ say _that_. After all, I did crash your day off." Clarke grins. "I'm glad I didn't ruin your solitude." She turns onto her back and lifts the book over her head, thumbing through for the poem she's looking for. Lately she's developed somewhat of a nightly routine, putting herself to bed with her favorite poems. "See you tomorrow?"

"I should hope so." That fond smile is on her face again as she watches Clarke snuggle in. She turns to leave. "Sleep well, Clarke."

Clarke’s eyes drift closed again, the book falling with a light thump onto her chest. She just gives up and curls farther into the pillows. “Mmmyou too, Lexa.”

The last thing she hears is Lexa's soft chuckle, and the door closing behind her.


	11. We're Here, Too

When she wakes again, Clarke is momentarily disoriented. She has slept twisted up in her chair for days now, but here she is on the ground instead. And when she reaches up to stretch her arms - ah, yeah, there's that pull in her side. That twinge of pain brings the whole of yesterday firmly into view, and Clarke spends the rest of the morning getting ready with a smile on her face.  
  
Her internal clock has again woken her in time for training, so she dresses quickly in her cold weather gear and heads down to the training pitch. There is yet more snow on the ground now, and it cakes her boots as she trudges through it. She thinks of her old boots, cracked and ripping in places, and is suddenly very grateful for the new pair.  
  
When she approaches, two familiar voices are chatting in Trigedasleng. She turns the corner to see Ronnie with a practice sword in his hands and his feet spread in a defensive stance; Lexa is beside him, coaching him into proper position.

“Ronnie!” Clarke calls, loud enough for them to hear as she trots up to the pitch. “Good morning!”  
  
She can’t keep the smile from her face at seeing him again - it’s only been a few days, but he’s become such a fixture for her since coming to Polis, she’d already started to miss him.

"Clarke!"  
  
Ronnie drops what he's doing immediately, and makes a run at the fence. He hops over the barrier in one fluid motion and bounces into the snow beside her with a big smile on his face. For a moment it looks as though he may hug her - but then a thought strikes him, his eyes going wide, and he bows instead. "I mean. _Wanheda_."  
  
In the background, Lexa picks up the dropped false sword and mutters to herself in Trigedasleng; Clarke gathers it's something along the lines of, _What am I, chopped liver?_

Clarke chuckles and grabs his jacket, yanking him in for a hug. "Just Clarke, Ronnie." When she releases him he nods, still beaming. "I hear you got a day off yesterday?"

"Yeah! We didn't even have to train with our Flamekeeper, we just got to do whatever we wanted." The kid is practically vibrating with energy. Apparently having the day off results in pent up energy. "I guess _Heda_ had something else to take care of. Some of the Nightbloods were saying she was sick, but I think she had an important mission to go on."

"You think so?" Clarke looks over at Lexa, who is still grumbling to herself as she picks up Ronnie's discarded equipment. "Maybe you should ask her. She doesn't look sick, so I think you may be on the right track. What did you do with all that free time?"

Ronnie gives her a look like she grew a second head. "I'm not gonna ask the Commander that," he says, and quickly switches topics. "Normally we would've gone for a hunt, but there won't be much to catch out there now. So we played a bunch of games instead - like this tournament, where we saw who could go the longest without being beaten..."  
  
He goes on to recount a variety of activities, participated in by both the Nightbloods and a few acquaintances from _Floukru_ that some had gotten to know while being Seconds to their warriors. Among them, a King of the Hill tournament that had them sparring even on their day off, a game that sounded suspiciously like soccer, and - of all things - a snow fight.  
  
All of this is told as they begin to set up for their training. Behind them, Lexa has gone to greet a peeved looking Indra, who now stands at the far end of the pitch with her arms folded over her chest and an eyebrow raised. It would seem that even the Commander is accountable to her teachers.

Clarke doesn't envy the lecture Lexa is about to be subjected to and winces on her behalf as Indra's face twists in disbelief when Lexa begins talking. Probably best to let her deal with that.  
  
"Ronnie, what do you say we get some training in before either of those two come up with something for us to do? I know things might seem a little different now, after the festival..." Ronnie raises his eyebrows in a clearly unspoken _duh,_ " but I'm still your friend. Your friend who is awful at fighting and only marginally better at dancing. Think you can still show me the ropes?"

"I mean...I guess so..." His cheeriness falters for a moment as he scratches the back of his neck. "What if I hit you? Is that still allowed? It wouldn't be good to hurt _Wanheda,_ I imagine..."

Clarke's chest tightens a little, but she forces a smile. Everything has been taken from her since she arrived on Earth, she should be used to it by now. But for some reason, losing Ronnie's friendship feels like the last straw. It feels like that might be the thing - after all the horrible, tragic things - that finally breaks her.  
  
"It's totally allowed. If you can hit me, that is. I've been improving a lot lately." Clarke starts walking toward the pitch and Ronnie follows, if a little uncertainly. "Besides, there's got to be something cool about being able to tell the other Nightbloods that you taught _Wanheda_ how to fight."

"Weeeell..." he says, tipping his head a little to the side as he draws out the syllable. A grin draws itself across his lips at the same cadence, and he follows her. "That did get some good reactions, yeah. Okay then. If you're so good, show me what you got."  
  
For a habit that has only existed for a week, the process of training with Ronnie is surprisingly resilient; it takes only a moment to get back into the swing of things. Most of the training pitch has been cleared of snow, leaving only a thin layer pressed into the dead grass and cold earth beneath. Though undoubtedly easier to maneuver on than the piles of the stuff that surrounds the fence, it still presents a decidedly slippery surface. Training pauses on more than one occasion as Clarke or Ronnie slip, driving a knee into the frozen ground and drawing an agonized groan from one and a bark of laughter from the other.  
  
Clarke's side protests throughout, and it does hamper much of her movement. It does not compare to the sounds of exertion coming from over her shoulder, however, where it's clear that Indra is mercilessly putting Lexa through her paces. It does mean that she gets a few more bruises from Ronnie's staff than she probably would have otherwise, though.

After what feels like forever but is probably only about thirty minutes, Clarke puts up her hand. Ronnie was mere inches from smacking her in the side again, but he instantly retracts his staff and takes a step back. "Okay," she says between pants, "so clearly you're still better than me." She stretches her side and makes a _mph_ sound as it pulls against her painfully tight muscles. "Give me a sec."

His eyes flash down to her side as he sticks his staff in the ground. It had been increasingly clear that he knew something was up, but now he asks, "How did you hurt yourself?"

Clarke straightens and waggles her eyebrows suggestively. "An important, super secret mission."

Ronnie's eyes go wide and his mouth drops open - but before he can ask for further details, a commotion behind her catches his attention. She turns to find that, somewhat earlier than usual, the Nightbloods have arrived.  
  
They gather around the edge of the fence to watch the continuing sparring session between Lexa and Indra and, rather than return to their own, Clarke and Ronnie move to join them. The two are going full throttle, making Clarke glad that they're using dull blades instead of their own weapons. That relief turns to a flash of irritation when she notices that the cut on Lexa's face has opened up again.  
  
" _Wanheda_."  
  
Ronnie has wandered closer to the action, leaving Clarke alone at her perch on the fence. At the unfamiliar voice she turns to see Kita, the oldest Nightblood, standing on the fence's other side. She has her head inclined and her fist over her heart.  
  
"My name is Kita," she says, head still bent, "A Nightblood. I wanted to apologize for not making myself known to you sooner; I was foolish, and did not realize it was you."

"It wasn't foolish at all, going unrecognized was my intention." Kita looks up at her then and Clarke imitates her motions, in a fashion. She puts her fist over her heart, but after a moment extends her hand. "You can call me Clarke. It's nice to meet you, Kita."

"Clarke," Kita repeats, trying out the name. " _Kom Skaikru_. You are kind to forgive me. It is an honor to meet you - I have heard much of your accomplishments."

“Exaggerated, I’m sure.” Clarke gives the girl a smile. Her face looks impassive, but with effort - as if she were trying to mimic Lexa’s unreadable countenance, but can’t help but express her feelings. Though, it could just be that Clarke knows how to see through that look. Hours on hours of experience, in fact. “It’s an honor to meet you too, Kita," she drops the hand she'd been holding out only somewhat awkwardly. "I’ve seen you training, with Ronnie and the others. You’re a formidable warrior.”

"That is high praise, from one such as yourself," Kita answers, inclining her head again. " _Heda_ and our _Fleimkepas_ teach us well. But I have much yet to learn."  
  
On the pitch, the duel between Commander and Chief is coming to an end. Indra calls a halt after Lexa is able to knock her blade from her hand, to the applause of the gathered Nightbloods; the sound attracts Kita's attention. "Speaking of," she says, "I should return to the others. I hope to get to know you, _Wanheda_."

"Likewise, Kita." Clarke watches the girl rejoin the Nightbloods. She whispers something at Ronnie, causing him to look back at Clarke and give her another of those adorable smiles.  
  
Her teacher now occupied, Clarke turns her attention to the two women walking toward her. Both Indra and Lexa are soaked in sweat and melted snow, but the Chief looks slightly less annoyed than she had before and Lexa's face, though red with exertion, is graced with a small smile...and a thin trail of blood from the cut on her cheekbone. "I told you not to do anything that would open that up again," Clarke says, loud enough that her voice carries across the pitch.

It's enough to catch the attention of a few Nightbloods, who turn curiously to see the source of the comment. When Lexa turns to look at them, however, they go right back to what they were doing.  
  
"And I warned you," she says, her voice at normal conversation level as she draws closer. Her eyes return to Clarke and they're bright with energy. "I am historically bad at following my healer's orders."  
  
"So you had something to do with this too," Indra grumps. She has mud on her face and a bruise blooming on her forehead, but otherwise looks to be her usual irritated self. "I should have guessed."

"I don't know why you would assume that. Certainly it's not my fault that Lexa managed to injure herself." Clarke shrugs, doing her best to put on an innocent affectation. From Indra's face, it's clearly not working.

Lexa stops in front of Clarke and rests her hands on the pommel of her practice sword, which she puts point-first in the dirt. "How was training?" she asks. "Did you manage, despite your side?"  
  
Indra scoffs from where she lingers behind her, clearly taking this as confirmation.

"It did hamper my movements," Clarke pointedly ignores Indra, "but I don't think Ronnie minded. Now when he beats me up, he can go tell everyone that he bested _Wanheda_."

"A worthy accomplishment," Lexa hums, and grins a little. "Did you offer him your evidence that his lessons are working?"

"You mean, did I tell him about our misadventure?" Clarke grins back. "No, I didn't. I didn't want to get you in..." she glances over at Indra, "well, _more_ trouble."

"I appreciate the thought..." Lexa's eyes give a sidelong glance over her shoulder, but Indra has started to take more of an interest in what the Nightbloods are doing. "I am anticipating the delegation from _Skaikru_ will arrive some time this afternoon. Is there anything you need to do to prepare?"

"I don't think so. Nothing that I can physically do, in any case." The top of Lexa's nose creases just slightly and her eyebrows seem to twitch upward - an expression Clarke understands as slight confusion on the Commander's part. "I haven't seen them in a long time, and it wouldn't be hard to interpret my leaving as abandoning them. I don't really know what to expect. I'm trying not to dwell on it. They're coming, and we'll see what they have to say."

Lexa nods then, sympathy in her eyes. "For what it is worth," she says, the wry edge in her tone hinting at a self deprecating joke, "I will be there as well. And I am certain that they bear much more anger for me than they must for you."

Clarke raises an eyebrow. "Kind of you to throw yourself on that sword for me." She leans forward on the fence, one foot bent beneath her and the other propped a little behind. The position allows the muscles in her side to soften and stretch. "If I'm trying to persuade them that it's best that I stay here for the winter, their anger toward you will just be another obstacle. I understand it," she catches Lexa's eye, but if the Commander has any thoughts about that sentiment, her eyes betray none of them, "but we can't let anger guide our decisions. I'll convince them."

"I have no doubt that you will."  
  
A call goes out to the Nightbloods, and Clarke looks up to see the woman usually training with them and Lexa approaching. She rallies the Nightbloods, and Lexa picks up her training sword again.  
  
"I should go," she says, the barest trace of a sigh leaving her lips. "I have ordered that a messenger be sent to you as soon as _Skaikru_ has been spotted."

Clarke nods, feeling an odd sense of disappointment as she says, "See you then," and Lexa walks away.  
  
After the theatrics at the tavern yesterday and her training this morning, Clarke decides it's probably best that she take a bath. She heads back to her room and takes her time getting ready, allowing herself to really enjoy the heat of the water and the routine of cleaning herself. She combs out her hair and washes it thoroughly. The soaps and salts on the side of the tub are completely foreign to Clarke but she uses several anyway, and the result is a delicious array of floral smells. By the time she's done, the water is nearly ice cold and she's managed to use at least half of the legion of lotion and soap bottles that Elena had left for her.  
  
Better late than never.  
  
When she does finally get around to putting clothes on, she chooses based on her usual criteria: function and comfort. Whether through Lexa's or Elena's influence she isn't sure, but she also considers the impression her outfit might give - at least to the extent that she foregoes her usual, well-worn boots and pants in favor of cleaner versions. Her new boots are taller, coming nearly to her knee, and the pants she chooses are utilitarian and black. Elena seems to have picked up on Clarke's style, and two long sleeved shirts, one white and one blue, sit neatly folded at the foot of the bed. She chooses the white one and instead of her larger coat, layers a thicker, hooded shirt under her new leather jacket. She can't see the entire effect in the mirror in her bathroom, but it at least looks like she made an effort.  
  
By the time she's done, Clarke's stomach is practically thundering with hunger. She takes the steps two at a time down to the kitchens. Tera is, as usual, busy barking orders and cooking eight things at once. Clarke hadn't considered that Tera might know who she is now and the thought makes her nervous. She doesn't want to intrude, and _Wanheda_ walking into the kitchens would almost certainly feel like an intrusion to the no-nonsense cook.

" _Put your eyes back in your head!"_ The cook calls in Trigedasleng to a helper who has spent a moment too long looking at Clarke as she enters. Tera _tsks_ them, and waves her over. "You would think _Praimheda_ walked in, the way this lot is staring. You hungry?"

A surge of relief washes over Clarke and she releases a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "I am starving. But I'd also love to work for a bit. If you have something for me to do."  
  
Tera scoffs. "There is always work to do. Here, sit down." She quickly scoops things out of various pots and pans, some still in the midst of cooking, onto a plate and passes it to Clarke. "Eat, then you can help."  
  
It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for Clarke to finish eating. Not one month ago it would've taken over twenty-four hours for Clarke to feel this hungry. At this point, she has to give credit to Tera's cooking for her increased appetite. There's simply no other explanation.  
  
Tera wastes no time in grabbing Clarke's empty plate and pushing two piles of food, one of potatoes and one of carrots, into its place. Wordlessly, she hands Clarke a peeling knife.  
  
Something pricks at the back of Clarke's mind as she sets about carving thin layers of skin off the carrots. After a few minutes, it comes to her. "Tera? What you said earlier, _Praimheda_. Was that the first Commander?"

Tera nods even as she moves about. "She was. She was the first to lead our peoples after the Fires. Do they teach you nothing up in the sky??"

"We only knew about what happened before the Fires, so that's all I ever learned about." Clarke narrowly misses peeling her own thumb on a particularly oddly shaped carrot. "Turns out, none of what we were taught of history really... exists, I guess, anymore. I don't know much of anything about what happened after the Fires, beyond the few things people have told me."

" _Praimheda_ was the first Nightblood. She came out of the fire and brought our people to the green lands," Tera says. "More than this, you will have to see with your own eyes."  
  
Clarke gets through a pile of carrots and another of potatoes, and several scattered conversations with Tera before a young girl comes running into the kitchen. She screeches to a halt just inside the door, looking around wildly, but Clarke knows why she's come before her eyes find her.

The essential information falls out of her in a rush - _Skaikru_ has reached the main gate of the city, and she’s supposed to meet Lexa outside.  
  
Clarke takes her time washing up and putting everything in its place. When she’s finally done, the poor messenger practically prancing on her toes, Clarke says, “Thanks for the meal, Tera.” With an understanding nod from the cook, Clarke finally allows herself to be led to the front of the tower.

When she arrives, Lexa's honor guard is already arrayed across the three doors out to the courtyard; the woman herself stands to the right of the center door. It has surely only been days since she has seen Lexa in her coat, with her pauldron and her cape, but the presence of the ensemble in the face of yesterday's memory is striking.  
  
The Commander turns to look when the lift stops, and the space beside her beckons. There, side by side with Lexa, they both turn to face the courtyard and the gate beyond.  
  
"Are you ready?" she asks.

“I better be,” Clarke glances over at the other woman. Lexa appears calm, more calm than Clarke feels, and she makes no attempt to hide her examination of Clarke’s outfit. “I hope you cleaned that cut before putting paint all over it.”

"Of course," Lexa answers. "I know better than to make my healer _too_ angry."  
  
Clarke makes a face at that, but she doesn't get a chance to voice her response. From the street, the sound of a gathering crowd tightens her fists and quickens the pace of her heart. Through the gate, a handful of Grounder guards appear just in front of a number of very familiar faces.  
  
At the front of them is Bellamy. He's grown a beard over the last few months, a dusting of close-cropped facial hair that stretches from temple to temple but doesn't quite meet at the corners of his mouth. The hair on his head is long as ever, unruly waves falling into his eyes as they scan the courtyard before landing on her. He wears a windbreaker and cargo pants, and there's a rifle strapped to his back.  
  
Just behind him, Raven and Octavia enter the courtyard with weaponry of their own. Raven wears a pistol in a holster at her side and a second rifle across her back. Her usual ponytail is missing from view, a black knit cap pulled down over her ears in its place. The hood of a sweatshirt pokes out of the neck of her trademark red jacket, and on her hands are a pair of mittens that leave her thumbs and forefingers free. She walks steadily but jerkily, despite what looks like a newer version of the old leg brace on her knee.  
  
Octavia's outfit is a mix of Grounder and _Skaikru_ gear, with cargo pants and combat boots paired with a Grounder leather jacket. A pistol is on her hip as well, but the hilt of her sword, rather than the butt of a gun, pokes out from over one shoulder. War paint stains her eyes and cheekbones, and a net of braids is just visible beneath the scarf that covers her head.  
  
The guards that escort them split at the foot of the stairs leading up to the tower doors, leaving nothing but empty space between the three members of _Skaikru_ and a few armored guards of their own, and the Grounder leadership that has gathered. Lexa and Clarke stand at the front, with Indra and Helena falling in behind them. From the corner of her eye, Clarke spots Titus lurking to one side.  
  
" _Heya, Skaikru,_ " Lexa calls. Her hands rest, one on top of the other, atop her pommel. Despite the weapons and the warpaint, her greeting is welcoming. "On behalf of the Coalition, I welcome you to Polis."  
  
"We appreciate the welcome, Commander," Bellamy answers. He stands with his hands at his sides, and his eyes move from Lexa to Clarke. He nods. "Clarke."

The anticipation of seeing her friends again, that felt so high mere minutes before, melts away. A grin erupts across her face and she doesn’t even try to stop herself - she runs the five feet between them and wraps her arms around Bellamy, currently closest to her. He stiffens, but hesitates only for a moment before embracing her.

His breath is warm on the top of her head as he chuckles. "Hello to you too," he says.  
  
From his side, Raven clears her throat. "Uh. Hi? We're here too."

Clarke laughs and yanks Raven in for a hug, nearly pulling her off her feet due to the clumsiness of her brace. Raven emits a soft yelp and hugs Clarke back, presumably half to keep herself upright. “I know! I didn’t know you were coming, I’m so happy to see you.”  
  
Raven rolls her eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth by the time Clarke pulls away. When she turns to Octavia though, Clarke hesitates. She’d missed her just as much as anyone, but the younger girl’s face is hard to read.  
  
“Octavia,” Clarke says. “I hope you’ve been keeping these two in line.”

The other Blake sibling is decidedly less immediate in her affection; she pauses, looking Clarke up and down from beneath her mask of dark makeup. Then she quirks a smirk, and offers her a hand. "As much as anyone can," she says.  
  
With all semblance of pomp promptly dismissed, the Grounder escort disbands. Lexa comes down from her place on the steps and stands a few feet behind Clarke.  
  
" _Belomi kom Skaikru,_ " she says, her head held high. "I hope your trip was swift."  
  
"It was, Commander," he answers, then glances at Raven. "Though your guards made us walk the last of it."  
  
"Apologies for the inconvenience," Lexa says evenly. "The people of this city have never seen vehicles like yours. I did not want to create more of a stir than necessary."

“I haven't even seen vehicles like yours," Clarke mutters. “Why don’t we go inside, catch up?” she turns and glances up at Lexa, raising her eyebrows for approval.

Lexa gives the subtlest of eyebrow quirks before nodding. "Of course. You must be hungry after your journey - come. We'll have something to eat."  
  
She turns and climbs the stairs, Indra, Helena, and Titus falling in with her as she goes. Bellamy, Raven, and Octavia follow Clarke up as well, Bellamy taking the opportunity to knock her elbow with his.  
  
"So this is where you've been hiding out?" he says, low enough that the Grounders ahead of them can't hear. He looks up at the tower above them. "Pretty swanky."

"I've only been here a little over a week." Clarke throws him a smirk. "But it's not so bad."  
  
Bellamy's eyes narrow, his face clearly asking what Clarke could have been doing the past few months if she'd only just arrived here. "I'll fill you in on everything," she adds, "I promise."

They are taken to the main floor of the tower, where a few turns beyond the throne room brings them to a dining hall that Clarke has never seen. A single table spans nearly the length of the room, already set with places for each of them. The group files in, all finding their seats with Lexa at the head.  
  
The Commander takes the opportunity to introduce Helena and Titus, and Bellamy introduces Raven and Octavia in turn. He and Clarke have the seats to Lexa's left and right, with Indra and Helena beside Clarke, and Raven and Octavia beside Bellamy. Titus is left in an odd seat beside Helena.  
  
Food is served shortly thereafter, and relatively inane conversation follows. Helena does much of the talking, quizzing Bellamy and Raven about their roles with the Sky People and what life at Arkadia is like. She takes particular interest in what Raven has to say about the transports that brought them there, a pair of motorized all terrain vehicles that they had found in the Mountain and that Raven had restored. Octavia eats little and says less, her eyes constantly watching the room and Indra in particular. Titus is equally silent, taking in the conversation as though he were more fly on the wall than participant.

All of this leaves Clarke and Lexa largely to themselves. The Commander doesn't speak much unless asked a direct question, but her eyes are attentive, scanning the table from one end to the other, and her mouth quirks up and down now and again as she listens to Helena quiz Raven. Clarke manages to provoke a few eyebrow quirks and one actual, tentative smile, but otherwise Lexa's guard remains decidedly up. And Clarke doesn't blame her.  
  
She can feel the eyes of her friends on her, unasked questions practically boring holes through her skin. Bellamy in particular mentions a few developments since she's been gone - largely what Lexa had already told her of the dealings between her people and _Trikru,_ particularly as it pertains to the Mountain. It's clear he's leaving something unsaid and Clarke knows him well enough not to ask. If he won't tell her now, then he'll wait until they're alone.  
  
The food they eat is delicious as always, and tastes similar to the stew Clarke ate the day after she arrived in Polis. The memory brings a small smile as Clarke realizes that was really the first time she'd felt comfortable here; the first time Polis felt like something other than a temporary prison.

That feeling makes for a particularly potent dissonance when, a little while later, she stands in her Polis room - surrounded by signs of Lexa's, Helena's, Elena's presence, by things that are so distinctly _Grounder_ \- with Bellamy, Raven, and Octavia.  
  
The Grounders excused themselves after their meal, leaving the four of them to their own devices. But there's little question that they knew as well as the people in this room that there is much the Sky People must discuss; even now, a hesitant pall settles over the room.  
  
"So this is Polis," Raven says. She's arranged herself in Clarke's favorite chair, her toe moving through the furs gathered at its foot. Octavia has taken to looking out the window at the city below, while her brother leans against the fireplace. "Far sight from TonDC."

"You should see the marketplace," Clarke settles onto the arm of the chair next to Raven, half sitting and half leaning. "There's even a park."  
  
Bellamy stares into the fire, uncharacteristically quiet. They're alone now - Clarke sees no reason to delay the inevitable. "What did the letter say? That you received from Nia?"

He shrugs at that, and turns to look at her. "That you had been found. That you had been injured, but were recovering nicely." His words grow a bit more pointed as he meets her eyes. "That you were eager to return to your people."

"Injured? I scraped my knee," Clarke clears her throat and meets Bellamy's eyes. "I'm fine. I don't know how Nia knew about that, but her sending a raven to Arkadia had very little to do with any concern for me. Or for our people, for that matter. Her aim is to undermine the Coalition however she can. I don't know exactly why, but that much at least is obvious."

"Is that what Lexa told you?"  
  
Octavia speaks for the first time, but doesn't immediately turn from the window. Only after all attention in the room has shifted to her does she turn to meet Clarke's eyes. "Or have you seen it with your own eyes?"

"I've seen it," Clarke confirms, an edge to her voice. "I don't know what she wants with me, or how we fit into her plans - whatever they may be. But she serves only herself. I spoke to her two days ago, just a few hours before she sent that message," Clarke levels her gaze on Octavia. "But Lexa has made the same observation. I was living in the mountains when Lexa's guards brought me here a week ago. Word of _Wanheda_ had reached _Azgeda,_ and Nia hoped to capture me herself. To use me as a prisoner or an ally, I doubt very much she cares which."  
  
Clarke sighs. It feels right, to be back with her friends, but at the same time it feels like a trial. She's had nothing to do but be herself for an entire week - a luxury she's not been afforded since landing on Earth. But now, again, her people need her, and falling into the Clarke they need is as easy as pulling on an old glove. "Lexa did tell me that, but I've confirmed it since. Nia does not mean to stay quiet for long. She will try to sow dissent wherever she can. I've never met someone with more ambition or pride. We should be wary of her."

"Or be interested," Octavia answers lowly. "You're assuming we're treating the Coalition as allies."  
  
"Because we are," Bellamy says, giving her a sharp look. "The Commander has done nothing but help us since the Mountain."  
  
"Where she left you to die!" Octavia turns fully from the window now, but her brother is having none of it.  
  
"We've already had this conversation," he says. "I'm not doing it again."

"No one is denying what she did," Clarke quickly interrupts. "I'll never forget it. I'm sure, if the situation arose again, she would make the same decision." The truth of that makes Clarke's chest tighten and stomach feel nauseous, but she ignores it. "We need the help Lexa can give us, at least through this winter. As far as I'm concerned, our goal is peace, not war - and if that's the case, Lexa is a far better ally than Nia. Even given our history."

"And if she does make that decision again?" Octavia demands. "If she puts her people ahead of ours? What if there is war, and it's more convenient to leave us high and dry and blown to hell?"

"Then we'll deal with it then," Clarke snaps. "I'm not interested in debating 'what if's. Our alliance with the Coalition will get Arkadia through the winter, and sharing the resources of the Mountain and training healers cements our relationship with _Trikru_. And, if I have time, I can do more than that."  
  
Bellamy raises an eyebrow and Raven looks decidedly unimpressed.  
  
"I've only been here a week, but I've met every chieftain. All twelve of them," Clarke explains. "My hope was to use those introductions to our advantage, but they have all been forced to leave and return to their homes before winter. However, all of them have ambassadors that will be staying in Polis." She takes a deep breath. "If I stay, until their festival in the spring when the chiefs return, I'll have a better chance of negotiating on our behalf."

Now it's Raven's turn to sit up.  
  
"You want to _stay?"_ she asks incredulously, angling herself in the chair so she can look up Clarke.

"I want to help our people. Through luck or happenstance, I now have a relationship with the clan leaders. And Octavia isn't entirely wrong." The younger woman smirks at Bellamy, who rolls his eyes. "We aren't part of the Coalition. Even with Lexa's support, it wouldn't hurt to have our own relationships with the other clans. If I'm here, I'll be a part of any decisions that are made. I can be a voice for us."

" _For_ us? Clarke, you haven't been _with_ us," Raven snaps. There's little question now that they stand on the edge of a conversation Clarke had been dreading having. "When Lexa left us at the Mountain, they took me. And they _tortured_ me, they drilled into my bones, and when I woke up? You were already gone. You disappeared for four months, Clarke, and now you're just - not gonna come back??"

Clarke swallows, her throat suddenly thick with apprehension. But it's nothing compared to the anger that flares, faster and stronger than she expected, in her voice. "I know what they did. To you, to my mother, to our friends...and I killed them for it. I killed hundreds of people. Maybe more, I didn't stop to count the bodies. And I would do it again, to save our people." The bite leaves her tone as quickly as it came, replaced with an overwhelming exhaustion. The kind that's been there, seemingly sewn into her bones, since she pulled that switch. "But I had to go. I don't know how to explain it. After everything I've done, and everything we've lost...I didn't know who I was anymore. So I left. But I'm done being selfish. As much as I want to go back, to be with all of you again, it makes sense for me to stay. It's the best way I can help."

"And we can help you," Bellamy says. It's clear he intends to say more, but his sister scoffs in her corner.  
  
" _You_ can," Octavia says, and turns on her heel. "I'm not overly interested in helping someone who gives more of a shit about them than us." Clarke and Bellamy exchange a look as she marches out the door and slams it behind her. With a sigh, he follows.  
  
And just like that, Clarke and Raven are alone in the room. The fire crackles in the silence left behind Octavia's exit, and the engineer watches it rather than Clarke.  
  
"I guess we know _Azgeda_ lied about one thing," she mutters finally. "You're not eager to come home."

Clarke sighs, stands, and falls, with a total lack of ceremony, backwards into the chair opposite Raven. "I am eager to be with you," she says, watching Raven's profile in the firelight. Clarke has always found her more difficult than most to read, which is strange - of all the friends she's cobbled together since they crash landed on Earth, Raven is her closest. "I missed you all so much. But I'm here now, and I'm trying to help our people the best way I can. And this seems like the best way, even if it means being away from you longer."

"But why did you leave in the first place?" Raven asks, looking at her now from the corner of her eye. "We needed you. We all followed you into battle, and then you just...left. Like none of it mattered. Like your job was done or something, and you were done with us."

“It wasn’t about you.” Clarke turns in her seat, angling herself so that she’s as close to Raven as possible. “Well, I guess it was. In a way. Everyone needs me. Always, ever since we came here. And I’ve never run away from that, but after Mount Weather...after Lexa left, and we had to get everyone out ourselves. After I killed everyone in that mountain...I did it to protect us. I know I did. But the truth is I also did it because I was so fucking _furious_.” Clarke stares at her hands, now clenched in her lap. She’s never said any of this out loud, but this is Raven. And now that she’s saying it, she can’t stop. “A part of me _wanted_ to kill them. Part of me thought they deserved it, part of me made that decision not out of love for you or logic or anything that might seem forgivable. Part of me did it for revenge. Out of spite. And after that happened, I didn’t know how to live with myself. I didn’t know who I was anymore, or what else I might do. So I left.”

"They were terrible people," Raven points out, quick to follow on Clarke's words. "They were using people like blood bags, and almost killed me - almost killed _Abby_ , more than once. I would've wanted revenge too! Hell, even while I was strapped down all I could think about was how I hoped you and Bellamy would kill them all."

Clarke snorts. "If I were back in that room right now and I had to make that decision all over again, I would still make the same choice. I knew if I left them alive they would just take the people I love from me again, and I would do anything to keep our people safe. Hard decisions are easier when they're the only ones to make. But even after murdering hundreds of people, I don't think I would have felt the way I did if Lexa hadn't left. She abandoned us. She abandoned me, and when we killed them...  
  
"It wasn't just the threat of future violence from the Mountain that made that decision easier. Those feelings of revenge should have come from the horrible things they did to you. They should have _only_ come from that. But they didn't, not entirely. Lexa abandoned us, and all I could think of when I flipped that switch was the look on her face when she realized we destroyed the Mountain without her and her army." Clarke forces her eyes up to meet Raven's. "What kind of leader would do that? After everything her people have been through, what kind of leader would let something as petty as spite motivate her decisions?"

"A human one," Raven answers, but her expression has changed. She no longer meets Clarke's eyes, and it's clear that she's processing information she hadn't considered before. "So it was Lexa, then?" She stops, shakes her head, mutters under her breath, "Of course it was Lexa." Then continues, " _She's_ why you left? Have you even talked about this? Is that why you want to stay?"

Despite an instant flash of defensiveness at the idea that Lexa is the reason she left, Clarke feels the tension seep out of her muscles. No, she hasn't talked about this. She hasn't even really allowed herself to think about it. "Lexa isn't why I left, but. She was part of it. And I want to stay because I know it will help us if I do. I know I let you down by leaving, but after everything that's happened over the last week, it really does make sense for me to be here. If something happens during the winter and our people need help from Polis, I can get it to them so much faster if I'm already here. And we need more allies of our own if we're going to survive longer than just the next few months."  
  
Clarke takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, slumping back in her chair as she does. "I know my explanation for leaving how I did may seem like a shit one. If I were you, I would think so. But I don't have a better explanation. I scared myself, and I wanted to make sure I could still be the person everyone needs me to be."

"And?" Raven's eyebrow goes up, a challenge. "Can you?"

"I think so." Clarke meets her eyes and this time they seem a little less impenetrable. A little more like the Raven Clarke has missed so much. "I know I'll do my best. And I know I won't leave you again. I admit I don't know much else but I'm still me, if that helps. Just a me that's a little more..." Clarke allows herself a little smile and tilts her chin at Raven's leg, "broken. Like most of us."

Raven surveys her for a long moment, as though trying to decide what to do with her. Then she sighs, and, hands on the arms of the chair, shoves herself to her feet.  
  
"Then you'd better catch up fast," she says, and starts walking to the door. "We weren't all waiting around pining for you - stuff's changed, and if you're gonna help us, you're gonna have to know it. Now hurry up and show me to my room. Maybe we'll find a Blake on the way."

"I would never think you were," Clarke mumbles, loud enough for Raven to hear. She follows Raven up and makes it to the door just in time to open it for her.  
  
"I'm not sure which room belongs to who, but they're all this way. I'll show you." Clarke hesitates with the door halfway open. "I really am sorry, Raven. I'm sorry I left. I know my explanation might be half-baked, at best, but I hope you can forgive me anyway. Eventually."

Raven shifts her weight between her feet, hesitation in her eyes and in her shoulders. Then she says, attempting - and not quite nailing - her usual bravado, "If I failed to forgive you for every half-baked idea you ever had, we'd never talk to each other." It isn't forgiveness, exactly; Clarke wasn't expecting it so soon. But it does leave a way forward, a kind of promise. Raven knocks her elbow. "Come on."

Clarke nods, a not-quite-smile curving her lips. It would be enough.  
  
They find the Blake siblings bickering in hushed tones at the far corner of the hallway, but the argument dies away as Clarke and Raven arrive to collect them. They face off in stoney silence as Clarke has a quick exchange with one of the guards to locate the rooms that had been set aside for the members of _Skaikru_. Each of those rooms - the first that Clarke has seen aside from hers and Lexa's - prove to be smaller but no less lavish than Clarke's. The personal gear that Raven, Octavia, and Bellamy brought with them sits waiting for each of them in their respective rooms; the collective gear and their accompanying guards were lodged on the floor above, in a communal room separate from the dignitary level.  
  
Clarke has wine sent up, and they sit on the edges of Bellamy's bed - their rooms have no sitting area - as he recounts to Clarke the events that have occupied _Skaikru_ over the past four months. Raven makes herself at home, leaning against a nest of pillows and stretching out her legs against the furs, boots still on, while Octavia continues her silent vigil from a far corner.  
  
Arkadia has been struggling, as Clarke had gathered from her conversations with Lexa and the dossier she'd been given on the subject. Cold temperatures had never been a foreign thing to those living on the Ark, but winter was an abstract thing in space. Once the Mountain fell and the immediate prospect of war with the Grounders faded, their complete lack of preparation for the coming months became apparent; they had no food, no clothing, no shelter that would sustain them for long.  
  
Though their leadership had tried to keep the specifics of the Mountain fight - and the betrayal that happened there - quiet from the general population, they were not the only ones there to see it. The soldiers that accompanied Clarke and her team to the gate grumbled over their breakfasts, spoke a little too loudly over their drinks, and word began to spread. With it, anger at the Grounders passed from witnesses to the rest of Arkadia and the Chancellor, who had begrudgingly realized that they would need the help of Lexa and the Coalition to survive the winter, faced growing dissension from her own people. The deal brokered to gain access to the Mountain nearly started a mutiny, as a subset of security forces led by a Captain Pike rallied dozens to their side, declaring that the Mountain was theirs by right as conquerors. It proved to be a difficult idea to kill, as _Skaikru_ had maintained a garrison at the Mountain since the battle - meaning the Grounders would have to fight their way in if they ever wanted to enforce the would-be treaty.  
  
The dissension only began to lose steam when the benefits of the agreement started coming to fruition, as when Monty and Raven were able to develop a hydroponics system using the Mountain's tech that would let them grow food inside the remains of the Arc itself. That, along with being able to repair sections of the remaining life support system to function as a makeshift radiator, began to turn the tide of sentiment. Even so, resentment of the Grounders remains - as Octavia is quick to both remind them and embody.  
  
With Abby in charge of making preparations at Arkadia, and Bellamy and Octavia spearheading the interactions with the Grounders, the work of preparing _Skaikru_ has since fallen into a relatively steady give and take. A team at the Mountain, led by Raven and Monty, dissect and reverse engineer the old tech, while a medical team reporting directly to the Chancellor combs through their medical records and supplies. Medicines and techniques are given to Grounder healers sent by Lexa to learn, in exchange for lessons on making warm clothes, building winter-proof shelters, and a steady supply of grain and preserved foods to supplement the rations they were able to collect from the Mountain's stores.

Clarke listens to all of this in relative silence, only interjecting with a question or request for clarification now and again. A weight in her gut grows as Bellamy relates the events of the past few months and it's obvious to Clarke what the source of it is: guilt. She'd left them to deal with this mess themselves - a mess she's had a hand in creating - while she hid in the mountains, licking her wounds.  
  
What she said to Raven is true: she truly didn't know if she could be the person they needed her to be after what happened. When it was all over, when everyone in the Mountain had either been saved or killed, she just felt empty. She remembers it distinctly, seeing Bellamy and hearing the words he said to her - something about how they deserved a drink after all that. She remembers feeling nothing - nothing but pain, and anger, and fear. It felt like the feeling of hunger after a whole day without food. Like someone had scooped out her insides and yet they still somehow, impossibly, ached. She'd felt ashamed at herself and uncertain of what any of it meant. So she left. But now, hearing all of this, it's clear that her friends at least felt a little bit of that same feeling. Maybe they didn't have nightmares or panic attacks; maybe they didn't flip that switch themselves, and maybe they didn't sit up at night questioning who they are for weeks on end. But they were in pain too, and she left them. Raven is right - Clarke's justifications might be understandable, even downright reasonable, but that doesn't change that she'd left her friends to deal with the fallout of this alone.  
  
Instead of voicing any of this aloud, Clarke shares what she's been doing the last four months. There isn't much to tell: nights spent in caves and days roaming the mountainside, of running and sleeping and hiding. She tells them how she tried to outrun the Grounders that came for her, how she didn't know they were Lexa's guards or she'd have fought harder. She gives them the same explanation that Lexa gave Clarke for bringing her to Polis and describes the plan they'd come up with together to unveil _Wanheda_ at the First Fall festival. She tells them about her conversation with Indra and describes Helena and Tumnas and all the other chiefs she'd met - how she'd managed to have conversations with all of them, most of them productive. She tells them all of this largely as explanation, but when she touches on her relationship with Helena and particularly her mornings training with Ronnie, she finds herself speaking more animatedly and smiling without meaning to.

By the end, the energy in the room has dropped significantly. Raven snoozes on the bed, the wine having done its work on a body made tired by the journey. Noticing this, Bellamy grins and shrugs.  
  
"Guess that's her bed now," he says, and they leave her to rest.  
  
He makes the point that someone should check in to make sure the security forces with them were settling in well in these foreign lands, and sets off to do just that. Leaving only Octavia, who neither makes a move to excuse herself, nor attempts to start conversation. She just stands in the corridor, glaring at Clarke in her broody silence.

Clarke is tired too, not so much physically as mentally and emotionally, and her patience for the younger Blake’s insistent foul mood is thin at best. But she knows Octavia - the younger woman is restless, pent up with anger and frustration. Annoying as it may be, Clarke can relate to that feeling.  
  
“I was going to head down to the kitchens,” she says casually. Octavia’s expression barely changes, but she manages to raise an eyebrow even as she continues to glare at Clarke. “Tera, the cook, lets me help out with dinner preparations in exchange for food. And an excuse to avoid the formalities of dinner.” Clarke shrugs a little, like she doesn’t care either way. “Want to come?”

Octavia eyes her a moment longer, arms folded over her chest, before shrugging right back. "Fine," she says, expression still unchanging. But she does follow Clarke when she turns to go.

Clarke guides them through the labyrinthine hallways and staircases, all the way down to the kitchens. Octavia doesn’t say a word the entire way, but Clarke sees her now and again out of the corner of her eye, sizing up the people they walk past and analyzing the path they take. She’ll almost certainly be able to make it back again herself, probably better than Clarke had the second time she tried to find her way down here.  
  
When they do finally step into the huge kitchen, Tera waves Clarke over instantly, apparently expecting her. She raises her eyebrows when she sees Octavia trailing behind her.

" _Who is this?"_ She asks in Trigedasleng, eyes narrowing a bit as they examine Octavia's face. " _Who have you brought into my kitchen?"_  
  
" _I am Octavia of the Sky People._ " Octavia answers in kind, needing no invitation to speak for herself. The commotion around her stills with her words, the kitchen staff all turning to look with surprise and uncertainty at this stranger in their midst. Tera hums, perhaps unsurprisingly unperturbed by this announcement.  
  
" _Yet you speak like a member of the Tree People,_ " she says. Her eyes move up and down Octavia's form. " _You do not dress like them. But you do not dress like the Sky People, either._ "  
  
" _I am neither,_ " Octavia answers resolutely.

“I wouldn’t abuse the privilege of you letting me work here, but Octavia and I are...” Clarke hesitates. She’d never had to explain to Tera why she needed to be there, the older woman just knew. But how to explain that Octavia needs it for similar, but different reasons. “Neither of us know our place here, but we know how to be helpful. And she’s better with her hands than I am. If you suffer me helping you, I promise she’ll prove an even better worker.”

Octavia is giving her a look, as though she can't quite believe what Clarke is saying. Tera eyes the sword that's still on Octavia's back, and harrumphs.  
  
"A sword is not a kitchen knife," she says, and pushes one into Octavia's hand. "Both of you, stand there. _Shodi! Jak tayto op!"_  
  
As the cook herds kitchen hands to bring vegetables to them, Octavia takes her indicated spot next to Clarke in front of a big cutting board. She looks down at the knife in her hand, then at the one now in Clarke's, and finally up to Clarke's eyes.  
  
"This is what you've been doing here?" she asks incredulously. "They put you to work?"

“No, not exactly.” Clarke looks down at the vegetables in front of them. More turnips. She’s starting to suspect Tera doesn’t trust her with anything more complicated than a small root vegetable. “I mean, yes, but I wouldn’t have to be here if I didn’t want to. I could be upstairs, being served dinner with Lexa and everyone else.”  
  
Octavia scowls and Clarke smirks, sympathetic. “Right, that’s how I felt too. It’s comforting to have something simple to do with my hands, and Tera doesn’t ask me any questions or press me for details about the Mountain. You cut enough vegetables, you earn your dinner.” She dices up a turnip in just a few seconds and makes an appreciative sound. She’s gotten better at this. “Plus cutting turnips feels oddly calming. Helps me to stop thinking for a little bit.”

"It's methodical. And a little violent." Octavia's knife clicks down with a bit more force than necessary, but Clarke isn't sure it's purposeful. It's clear after a moment that this isn't the sort of chopping up she has experience with. "Suits me just fine."  
  
They're at work for around ten minutes before Tera appears again, that same critical look on her face as she takes in Octavia. The other kitchen workers haven't stopped watching her since she introduced herself.  
  
" _Not-Sky-People-Not-Tree-People,_ " she says, the amalgamated Trigedasleng name clearly meant to identify the younger Blake sibling. She pauses and raises an eyebrow at her, and when she does, Tera lifts her hand to reveal a pair of freshly caught rabbits. " _Know how to skin a rabbit?"_  
  
That initiates an easy back and forth, Octavia leaving Clarke at her station to help Tera skin, clean, and break down the rabbits. Her Trigedasleng is more practiced than Clarke's, her responses quick and fluid. In a matter of minutes, she sees more animation and ease in Octavia than she has since the _Skaikru_ delegation arrived.

Despite the fact that Clarke has fended entirely for herself for over four months now, Octavia still looks more at ease skinning an animal than she imagines she ever has. After another thirty minutes, Octavia and Tera are chatting away like old friends, the rabbits long since prepared, separated into appropriate cuts, and deposited in stew. If Clarke were braver she might point out that with Octavia barely peeling a potato and Tera stirring a pot about once every minute, the younger Blake is actually, impossibly, distracting the cook from her duties. But Clarke is in fact not that brave and happily keeps to her own thoughts and turnips. She’s happy to share what she’s come to think of as a small haven with Octavia, but she would’ve been here had she taken Clarke up on her offer or not. After all the conversations she’s had today, she needs the time to clear her mind and reset more than ever.

Tera does eventually remember that there's an additional purpose to the two of them being there, and has dinner brought to each of them. Clarke is able to join the conversation then, which had moved on to discussing the best ways to prepare the various types of game that could be caught in the region. Though Tera is clearly the most experienced of them in this domain, there's little question that she is impressed with Octavia's knowledge. When she asks where the younger Blake had learned all of this, however, Octavia offers a bitter smirk.  
  
"Someone who used to be a friend," she answers.  
  
Clarke leaves the two of them to their own devices when she's finished eating, and is grateful that she finds no one on her way back to her room. The whole of the day had been emotionally trying in one way or another, but being in orbit of Octavia's dour cloud had proven to be particularly draining. She spares no hesitation in curling up with her translated copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ and tuning out the world for a while before falling asleep.


	12. I Hope You Know What You're Doing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter :OOOOO
> 
> TW: Alcohol

As has become a habitual routine, she falls asleep while reading in her chair but wakes with her stomach and chest pressed decidedly to the floor, face looking up into the chair she fell asleep in. She’d had nightmares, one right after another like she’d had in the mountains and in this very room not a few days ago. It isn’t a huge surprise, but as always an unwelcome one. When she wakes her muscles are achy and sore, and her mind takes several minutes to catch up with reality.  
  
The prospect of training with Ronnie seems an ideal distraction though, and she rushes through getting ready. In less than twenty minutes she’s cleaned, clothed, and out the door.

"You look rough," Ronnie says as she approaches, ever the tactful soul. A light snow is falling in small lazy flakes, the absence of any wind resulting in an almost eerie quiet. The only sound comes from behind them, where Lexa is moving carefully through sword forms.  
  
The Nightblood is just finishing setting up an archery target, and has leaned two quarterstaffs against the fence nearby. He grins at Clarke a little as she shuffles through the snow. "Sleep okay?"

“Not the best.” Clarke adjusts her hood and pulls it down tighter over her ears. She’d been so happy to escape her room and the flashes of nightmares that lingered even as she was getting ready that she forgot just how cold it might be out here.  
  
“I woke up on the floor, which is not where I fell asleep.” She tilts her head toward the target. “Didn’t need any help setting up this time?”

"Ah, no." He glances over his shoulder at Lexa. "Just the one time was enough for me to figure it out. How'd you end up on the floor?"

“Nightmares.” Clarke shrugs. “They don’t usually put me on the floor, but maybe I was restless. My friends arrived yesterday and we have a lot to catch up on.”

Ronnie nods knowingly. "I used to get those, too," he says, and walks back to pick up the staves. "We had heard that a delegation from _Skaikru_ had arrived, but none of us have been able to talk to them. Are they actually your friends?"

Clarke chuckles and catches the staff Ronnie tosses to her. “Yes, they’re actually my friends. Maybe I’ll get a chance to introduce you, I think you’d like them.”

"I have no idea - I've never met a Sky Person before," he says, and grins. "Except you, of course. Is it true that some of you glow in the dark?"

“Like those butterflies?” Clarke makes her best impression of a stern Commander face. “We’re humans, Ronnie, we don’t glow. We do make some cool stuff, though. My friend Raven basically built her own spaceship.”

Ronnie looks like he's on his way to a teasing answer when that last part draws him up short. His brows pull together, utter befuddlement on his face. "Space...ship?" he repeats.

Clarke grins at his confused expression. “Yeah, that’s what we lived in, before we came here. We lived in spaceships, above the earth. She didn’t make one as big as those, but she did repair a small one and come to earth all by herself.”

He looks up at the sky, and doesn't seem to notice the snowflake that lands and promptly melts right on his cheek. Then he looks back down at her. "Like _Floukru's_ ships? Sails and ropes and things?"

“No...not exactly. It’s like...” Clarke struggles for something to compare the sheer magnitude of engineering to what Ronnie would understand. “The same way that _Floukru’s_ ships move, with the wind pushing their sails, spaceships are powered by engines. Crazy complex technology that I don’t understand, but that technology let us bring ships into space.”

"En..gines...?" he repeats skeptically, before shaking his head as he slides into a fighting stance. "You might just have to show me one day, Clarke."

Clarke sighs. “I’d love to show you one day.”  
  
It’s odd how frustrating it can be to try explaining her life to people here. Or, rather, what her life used to be. For all that Polis has become familiar, there's still so much that's different between it and her people's way of life. It makes Clarke feel sad, and strangely isolated. But she shakes the feeling off and follows his lead, falling into the stance he taught her.

It turns out that a restless night doesn't make sparring easy. Between her stiff limbs and the cold, it takes her body much longer to warm up - which means a considerable increase in the number of bruises. It's clear midway through that Ronnie notices, however, and he begins to pull his punches. Not enough to make things easy, of course, but enough that she can keep up that much better.  
  
As they go to reset after a particularly frustrating exchange, Clarke turns to notice two figures standing at the edge of the fence. The first is Octavia, her arms folded over her chest and an expression that announces she's decidedly unimpressed. Beside her, leaning forward with her elbows on the fence and a smirk on her lips, is Helena.  
  
"Looking real good there, _Wanheda_ ," she calls teasingly.

Clarke isn’t used to an audience, certainly not one that’s any larger than Lexa, and she feels momentarily self conscious. But Helena’s needling sarcasm is oddly comforting - it reminds her of Raven, which puts Clarke at least a little more at ease.  
  
“It’s my second week!” Clarke gestures with the end of her quarterstaff toward the chief. “Think you can do better?”

"Against who?" she grins, and stands to her full height. "Against you, or the kid? Ah, either way - I think I can."  
  
"Hey..." Ronnie grumbles, frowning.

“I don’t know, he’s pretty impressive. You know he practices this like, all day every day, right?” Clarke winks at Ronnie, but she hadn’t actually meant to volunteer him to spar with a chieftain, so... “But I meant me. Why don’t you show me what _Floukru_ teaches their warriors?”

"If I do that," Helena says, waving a hand, "I'll hurt you."  
  
"Actually, Clarke," Ronnie interjects. He stands at her elbow now, quarterstaff stuck in the snow and held between his hands. "I would love an opportunity to demonstrate the skill of the Nightbloods for the chieftain."  
  
Now Helena looks interested. "Are you sure, kid?" she asks, even as she hops the fence. "I'll warn you, I don't fight like the _Natbliddas_ do."  
  
Ronnie sports a knowing grin in return. "No one does."  
  
As he takes the staff from Clarke and returns to the equipment pile, Helena's eyebrows go up. She watches him leave with a slow smile turning her lips; looking at Clarke, she tips a thumb in his direction. "I like that one," she says, before going to join him.

“I do too.” Clarke watches them go, impressed. She’s never seen Ronnie fight anyone that isn’t a Nightblood - or his age, for that matter.  
  
She takes Helena’s place at the fence next to Octavia. “Come to watch me get beat up by a twelve year old?”

Octavia shrugs, and cracks a small smirk. "Seemed like something to do."  
  
A few minutes of sorting through the available equipment later, and Helena and Ronnie face each other. She has a practice sword in one hand and one of the false daggers Clarke has been using in the other; she turns it in her hand, rotating her wrist to get the feel of it. Ronnie, for his part, stands ready. This is his home turf, after all.  
  
"Okay..." Helena says, finding her footing in the snow. "Ready, Nightblood?"  
  
Ronnie nods. "I am."  
  
"Then let's begin."  
  
Helena makes the first move, crossing the space between them at a leisurely pace to drop a handful of blows with her sword. Each of them are easily caught and turned away by Ronnie, who circles off to one side after the last one, rotating his wrist. Helena grins and follows him, delivering another few perfunctory strikes, also all turned aside.  
  
"Good," Clarke hears her say, but who she's speaking to is unclear. After a few more circles around each other, both fighters come to a stop. Apparently satisfied with their initial assessment of each other, each settles in for the real fight.  
  
A break in the pattern, it's Ronnie who's the first to attack now. He lunges across the flattened snow between them, kicking a puff of powder into the air as his boots dig in and push off. His sword lands hard on Helena's, the crack of wood on wood echoing in the still air. He pulls back in time to avoid a swipe from the dagger in Helena's off hand, knocking her sword away in the process and making a split second swipe at her side in return. The slide she makes to avoid it puts her past him, and the fighters switch sides.  
  
"Not bad," Helena says, and Clarke can hear more than see the grin on her face. Ronnie's expression is one she's never seen on the young man: he isn't quite smiling, but there's a light and an energy in his eyes that makes for something similar.  
  
"Thank you for the compliment, Chief," he says with a nod, and Helena scoffs in return.  
  
"Oh come now. Drop the formalities and hit me."

The way Helena moves reminds Clarke, perhaps unsurprisingly, of rushing water. Seamless, quiet, and supremely dangerous. Ronnie fights like Lexa - similarly effortless, but clearly out of intense practice and experience than an innate motion. And, like Lexa, he fights to win. The energy alight in his eyes reminds Clarke that her teacher isn’t just a twelve year old - he’s also an accomplished, and deadly, fighter.  
  
“I’m already glad he saved me from this,” Clarke mutters, loud enough for Octavia to hear.

"Mm." Octavia watches as Helena ducks beneath an attack from Ronnie's sword, spinning to a stop at his side in a flurry of snow and slicing with both weapons. He barely dodges out of the way in time, at which point the younger Blake looks at Clarke. "Don't think you can keep up?"  
  
Helena is fast enough to follow up that attempt with a second, her dagger stabbing inward while Ronnie is still off balance from his previous dodge. He still manages to avoid the blow, but loses his footing in the process; he falls back into an untouched section of snow, sending up a poof of powder as he lands. Before Helena can capitalize on it, though, he rolls backwards onto his feet, his sandy hair and black clothes now dotted with white, and attacks again. This time it's Helena's dagger that catches his sword with a crack, and she backs up as he swings again.  
  
“I might, but not for long. I know my strengths,” Ronnie swipes a particularly vicious looking blow at Helena’s knee, which she barely skips away from, and Clarke makes a low whistle at the narrow escape, “and my weaknesses. I’m no match for them with a sword.”  
  
By now, the commotion is enough to draw the attention of the practicing Commander. Dressed in heavier clothing today than usual - a short coat and higher boots join the long sleeve shirt and gloves she has been wearing to train - she stops her practice to watch. Sheathing her sword, she rests one hand on top of the other on her pommel, keeping her distance from the scrap playing out in front of her.  
  
Clarke’s attention moves to track Lexa’s movements without her having to think about it, cataloguing the Commander’s facial expressions and assessing her body language. She looks relaxed, and intrigued. And maybe even a little amused.  
  
“Lexa,” she calls. Lexa turns instantly from the fight and meets Clarke’s eyes. “Why don’t you come watch the show with us?”

Octavia stiffens immediately beside Clarke, her eyes darting to her as if to ask, _are you insane?_ Her concern goes without reason however, as Lexa's eyes flick to Clarke for only a moment, a small smile turning her lips. Rather than answer, she lifts only a finger - wait - and then returns her attention to the fight.  
  
"Come on then!" Helena crows, laughing as she stares down Ronnie. "Surely _Natbliddas_ are faster than that!"  
  
Ronnie scowls - _scowls_ , an expression that would be utterly foreign on his face if she hadn't seen a nearly identical one on Lexa's so many times before - and bull rushes Helena. The chieftain skips to the side, sticks a foot out, and sends Ronnie flying face-first into the snow. He skids an inch or two, and groans. Helena promptly turns and kicks the sword from his hand, lobbing it into a pile of distant snow.  
  
"Woo!" she whoops, thrusting both her hands into the air. Twelve year old or no, the thrill of battle has clearly taken Helena, her face red with the rush of it. She turns to where Clarke and Octavia still stand. "That's how it's done in _Floukru!"_ She beats her chest in rhythm with the sound of her clan's name, a grin wide and dazzling on her face. She extends her sword, pointing at Octavia. "Who's next? How about you, _Skaikru?_ Show me what that sword of yours can do!"  
  
"No," Octavia says simply, as though she were anticipating this question, and turns her eyes from Helena to Lexa. She tips her chin in the Commander's direction. "I want to fight her."

Clarke just raises an eyebrow and turns to Lexa, curious how that’s going to be received. Despite the progress she and Lexa have made since Clarke came to Polis, it seems to her like a reasonable challenge given what she did - not just to Clarke but to her people. Including Octavia.

An immediate silence descends on the field, the exuberance draining quickly from Helena's face. Ronnie whips himself over onto his back, his eyes flying to Octavia and the sword on her back as he scrambles to his feet, hand grasping at the snow for the hilt that is no longer there.  
  
"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Helena says, slowly stepping sideways to place herself between Lexa and Octavia. "You see, the Commander--"  
  
"It's alright, Helena."  
  
The _Floukru_ chieftain pauses in her step, and looks over her shoulder. Lexa stands calmly, still within Octavia's eyesight, and turns to meet her gaze. " _Yu gaf gonplei ai in, Oktavia kom Skaikru?"_  
  
If asking the question in Trigedasleng is an offering, it is quickly dashed. With a nod, Octavia answers in English. "I do."  
  
Silence again, as all eyes turn to Lexa. Both she and Octavia wear their swords, making the implication clear: this duel will be fought with live steel. Given the absence of any formal alliance between the Coalition and the Sky People, that could amount to allowing a potentially hostile stranger fight the Commander one on one, with a deadly weapon and no guards on hand. It is clear from their body language that Helena and Ronnie are not unaware of this reality, and are not particularly at ease with it. Nevertheless, Lexa nods.  
  
"Very well," she says, and Octavia climbs the fence.

“Be careful.”  
  
Clarke doesn’t know who she’d like to direct that toward more. She knows that this may be necessary, for Octavia and perhaps in a way for Lexa. But even so, she cares about both of them...and live steel was not how she would have hoped this would play out.  
  
Octavia turns to look at her only briefly, but nods in acknowledgement. Clarke meets Lexa’s eyes immediately after the younger woman turns around, hoping to convey that despite everything, the sentiment is meant for her too. Lexa's chin dips in the smallest of nods, but Octavia's sword sings as she draws it from her sheath and the Commander's attention answers it.  
  
Across the pitch, Ronnie has picked up his training sword again and stands with it in a vice-like grip. The whole of him is tense, his eyes betraying his concern as he watches Octavia approach his Commander.  
  
"I don't like this," Helena grumbles, moving to take her place by the fence. She doesn't climb to the other side of it, but stays opposite Clarke with her practice weapons in her hands. "Do you trust your friend, Clarke?"

Clarke hops over the fence as well, leaning against it next to Helena as casually as she's able. But her hand sits on the wood behind her, maybe two inches from her knife.  
  
“I trust her understanding of the gravity of this, and I trust Lexa’s abilities. Beyond that...” Helena’s frown is obvious, and Clarke doesn’t blame her. She does trust Octavia, and if she’d told her not to hurt Lexa, she would’ve listened. But Clarke didn’t tell her that. “But I think Octavia needs this. And I think Lexa can handle herself.”

"Oh, I know that she can," Helena answers, "but accidents happen."  
  
Clarke swallows down the reaction those words draw.  
  
Octavia and Lexa, both arrayed in leather and black, now stand across from each other. Lexa unsheathes her sword and tosses the sheath aside, freeing herself of its bulk. "To first yield, then?" she asks, settling into a defensive stance.  
  
"To first blood," Octavia answers. Her weight shifts from one foot to the other, anticipation forcing her body into movement. Helena makes a sound deep in her throat, but Lexa only nods.  
  
And with that, the fight begins. Octavia hurls herself at Lexa, all fury and strength, and the Commander calmly turns the attack aside. Using Octavia's own momentum against her, she lets the blow slide along the length of her blade as she steps to the left, letting the other woman careen right by her. The move doesn't catch Octavia unawares, however, and she digs her boots in with a skid of snow and whips around, slicing the air with her blade and a roar.  
  
There was little question before now that Lexa is a better swordswoman than Octavia. The Commander has been training to fight since she was a child, and has proven herself capable in real battle again and again. All that practice and control shows as she calmly, unflinchingly turns away each attack coming for her, never giving ground that she does not mean to give.  
  
But what Octavia lacks in skill, she makes up for in sheer force of will. It's what convinced Indra to take her in the first place, and why she has done so well in a world that values only strength and bravery. Each time Lexa deflects an attack, she comes back with more. Lexa is a steel wall, but Octavia is a roaring hurricane; she crashes against the Commander's defenses with little concern for her own safety, rage fueling attempt after attempt to batter that wall down.

Despite Clarke’s assurance, if tentative, for Helena, she feels increasingly anxious as the fight goes on. Lexa is clearly in control, but still Clarke’s concern is more for her than Octavia. The younger woman is nonstop, an unrestrained force meeting the epitome of restraint.  
  
Lexa wouldn’t hurt her, of that Clarke is reasonably confident. Lexa would never do anything she didn’t deem necessary, and Clarke would personally let hell loose on her if anything happened to her friend - and after everything, she’s at least pretty sure that means something to the Commander. But Lexa has to defend herself, and it’s starting to look like her methods of doing so can only escalate. The prospect of all of this coming to a head makes Clarke’s stomach roil with apprehension.

"What the hell??"  
  
The exclamation is still far off, but Clarke recognizes Bellamy's voice in an instant. He comes running around the corner of the tower, eyes wild, and Raven follows behind.  
  
"What the hell happened??" he demands again as he approaches, looking between Clarke and the fight still happening on the other side of the fence. "Why is Octavia--"

Clarke puts a hand up and he stops. He makes a grumbling noise and stands on the balls of his feet anxiously, but he stops.  
  
“We were training, and Octavia asked Lexa if they could...” the sound of metal clashing cuts her off and everyone turns to confirm both women are still standing. “...spar each other.”

"Spar her? Is she _insane??"_ Bellamy's voice goes up an octave on the last word, anxiety rippling in his throat. But he does nothing to interrupt the fight, turning to watch as he says, "If she hurts her..."  
  
It isn't immediately clear which "her" he means. Either one would have potentially desperate consequences.  
  
After another side step sends Octavia skidding away, the younger girl roars her frustration.  
  
"Why won't you fight me?" she demands through gritted teeth, her fists clenched at her sides. Lexa remains in her fighting stance, watching her impassively.  
  
"We are fighting," she answers matter of factly, which fails - unsurprisingly - to mollify Octavia.  
  
"Oh go float yourself!" she snaps, "You're playing with me! _Fight me!"_  
  
She launches another attack at that, and this time when Lexa catches her blade, she holds it on hers. "Very well," she says, and with her other hand on the dull back of her blade, she shoves it forward and pushes Octavia bodily backward. For the first time in the duel, Octavia is on the defensive.  
  
Yet Lexa doesn't have the luxury of merely testing and cataloging the way Octavia responds to her attacks, as she might if she were fighting someone like Ronnie or Helena. Octavia is all ferocity and no practice; she follows no traditional forms, and reacts with instinct alone. So just when Lexa thinks she's safe, another wild attack makes her step back.  
  
"For someone on the defensive, she does an awful lot of attacking," Helena mutters, putting Clarke's observation to words.

Clarke finds that she’s no longer even pretending to be casual. Her back is rigidly upright, her feet bouncing slightly, and despite it all she feels ready to leap forward at any second. To do what, she has no idea, but she and Bellamy must make quite a sight.  
  
“I couldn’t exactly stop her.” Clarke glances over at Bellamy and Raven. Her concern is reflected like a mirror in Bellamy’s eyes, and Raven looks simultaneously exasperated and uneasy. “This will be...helpful. For them. And effective. Assuming it ends in a not wholly awful way.”

"A not wholly awful way," Raven repeats in a mutter. "Have you met us?"  
  
Lexa grunts as another of Octavia's blows lands on her sword, and uses an opening in the other woman's defenses to kick her knee out from under her. Octavia goes down with a thud, but she snarls and whips her sword out in a wide swing to force Lexa back, giving her the space to gain her feet again. As soon as she does, she launches into another attack.  
  
Both combatants are tiring now, Octavia's ferocious onslaught leaving her winded and Lexa tried. There's little doubt in Clarke's mind that Lexa's been holding back, pulling her punches lest one of them get hurt, but that job becomes exponentially harder when her partner shows little regard for her own safety. This entire time, Octavia has either been oblivious to the openings her own attacks leave in her defenses, or else has been purposefully using Lexa's hesitancy against her; either way, the additional task is beginning to wear Lexa out.  
  
As such, there's an air of finality to the next time the pair come together, even before the final blow is struck. Lexa and Octavia trade blows now, each pushing the other off and on the defensive in rapid turns, all until a last moment when one of Lexa's parries sends Octavia's blade arcing wide. Both women lunge then at the same time, rams coming head-to-head, and in a flash it's over.  
  
Lexa has reversed her grip on her sword, and now presses the dull side of the blade against Octavia's throat, pinning her into a yield. But Octavia had thrust her sword forward, over Lexa's shoulder and extremely close to her face. Both freeze in that moment, staring each other down...until, slowly, Lexa reaches a hand up to her cheek. It comes away black with blood, and she lowers her sword.  
  
"Until first blood," she says quietly, but in the sudden stillness of the pitch, her voice carries to all present. Her eyes return to Octavia's. "Congratulations, _Oktavia kom Skaikru._ The bout is yours."

Clarke exhales a breath she couldn’t even guess how long she’s been holding. “That could have been worse,” she says, half to reassure those around her and half for herself. She and Bellamy walk forward to meet the two of them at the same time, again apparently thinking the same thing - that went better than it could have, but now it’s time they de-escalate this situation.

Octavia is in the process of lowering her sword and stepping back, but her hackles are still visibly up. Lexa stands catching her breath, and gives the edge of her blade a perfunctory check.  
  
"You fight fiercely," she says to Octavia, even as Bellamy and Clarke reach them.  
  
"Octavia," her brother says, "I--"  
  
"Hey." Octavia speaks as though she hasn't heard him, doesn't even know that he's there. Instead her eyes lock directly on Lexa, who looks up with the same gravity that Octavia's voice holds. "If you betray us again," she says, deadly serious, "I'll kill you myself."  
  
Lexa's expression doesn't change. She just nods at the threat. "I have no intention of doing so," she promises, "but if it came to that, you would be welcome to do so."  
  
Only then does Octavia sheathe her sword.

Clarke raises an eyebrow, both at the idea that Lexa would allow Octavia to kill her, regardless of the circumstance, and at herself for feeling absolutely certain that she would not allow that - regardless of the circumstances.  
  
The urge to respond with a very sharp ‘that will not be happening,’ is overridden by a closer look at Lexa’s face. The cut on her cheek can’t be from Octavia. It’s the same cut she received at the tavern the other day, open and bleeding yet again. Immediately, Clarke understands what Lexa has done. She saw an opening to deescalate the situation, and she took it.  
  
“Do we all feel better now?” Clarke asks loudly, addressing everyone in attendance. She knew this whole ordeal would help Octavia, in one way or another - in fact, she can sympathize. She’d put a knife to Lexa’s throat herself not too long ago. But that doesn’t mean she has to like it.

"Define better," Octavia says, but there's less anger in her now. Her eyes still haven't left Lexa. "I don't feel like punching her in her face anymore, so yeah, I guess better."  
  
"Okay, tough guy," Bellamy says, and despite the fact that it can't be later than nine in the morning, he already sounds exhausted. He puts a hand on Octavia's shoulder and, after some small resistance, steers her away. Lexa watches them go, sword still in hand.  
  
"Your friend is going to get herself killed," she says, without looking at Clarke.

“So are you.” Clarke takes in Lexa’s posture, evaluating her body in a way only someone trained in medicine might. She seems fine. Tired, and rigid in that way that she so often is, but otherwise fine. Aside from that cut...  
  
“You could at least put ointment on that cut yourself, you know. If you’re going to insist on letting it open up like that.”

Lexa drags a wrist across her cheek, and checks to see if any blood has come off. She has successfully smeared black across her face, but has otherwise come away dry.  
  
"It has already stopped bleeding," she says, as though that were some kind of solution. "And anyway, it put an end to the fight, did it not?"

Clarke shakes her head, but agrees, “Yes, I suppose it did.” Lexa still hasn’t looked at her since the fight started. She doesn’t think thanks are necessary, only obvious, but she steps a little more solidly into Lexa’s line of vision and says it anyway. “I’m glad you’re both alright. Thank you.”

That causes Lexa to blink, her eyes at last drawn back to Clarke. Whatever residual energy from the fight she had leaks out of her then, and though she still has her usual rigid posture, she now looks somewhat more at ease. "For what?"

“For finding a...good solution to that.” Despite the situation, the tension leaves Clarke a little as well and she smirks. “Or as good a solution as there could be.”

"I discovered long ago that there are many faces to diplomacy," Lexa acknowledges with a tip of her head. "Some look a little more like war than others."  
  
Ronnie approaches then to offer Lexa her discarded sheath, which she accepts and reties to her belt. By then the remaining Nightbloods have arrived, and the Commander is called to her duties once more.  
  
Despite the tension of literal moments ago, Clarke returns to the others to find them chatting amicably with Helena. She is examining the construction of Octavia's blade, an entertainment that quickly turns into conversation about the weapons more particular to _Skaikru_. Before long, Raven has pulled out her pistol, and is explaining its working parts.  
  
"No, that's the safety - don't touch that!" she says quickly, as Helena's curious fingers probe over the handgun's surface. "So this is the trigger, right? You pull this, and it releases the hammer - every bullet is its own little explosive. The hammer--"  
  
"I don't see a hammer," Helena says, turning the weapon this way and that. Raven makes an irritated sound, and takes the gun back.  
  
"Here," she says, and in the blink of an eye the once whole weapon sits in its many pieces on the ground, including a bullet separated from the magazine. Raven may not be a marksman, but she knows the mechanism damn well. "See, this thing is what I'm calling the hammer. See how it moves like that? When you pull the trigger, the hammer moves forward..."  
  
Once the weapon is in one piece and in Helena's hand again, she looks at Clarke. "Do you know how to use one of these?"

“Yes. Better than I’d like.” Despite herself, Clarke can’t help the grin on her face. Damn, she’d missed them all. “I’m much better with that than a sword.”

"Really?" Helena's smirk is in full force now. "I never would've guessed."  
  
She looks up at the archery target, still standing forgotten to one side of the pitch even as the Nightbloods begin their drills. Then she turns to Raven. "Can I use it?"  
  
"Use it?" she repeats, glancing at Clarke askance. "You mean, shoot it?"

“Well,” Clarke shrugs a little at Raven, in an ‘I don’t know’ sort of gesture, “it’s not my gun. It’s up to Raven. But it is extremely loud. It would alarm everyone here, not to mention in the tower, to hear it.”

"Ugh, Clarke." Helena sighs, and defeatedly hands the gun back over to Raven. "Always spoiling my fun."

“Really, always?” Clarke smirks. “I can’t recall ever ruining your fun. In fact, I think so far I've encourage it.”

"Is that so? Well in that case, encourage it a little longer and go grab a sword. I want to spar with someone, and your friend scares me."  
  
They pass the next hour doing just that, the members of _Skaikru_ standing off to one side as Helena intermittently instructs and batters on Clarke. Helena could be a good instructor if she wanted to, but it's clear that she prefers showing off to sharing her skillset. And with the way much of her commentary is directed towards Raven, Clarke has a suspicion as to who she is showing off for.  
  
When that ceases to be amusing, they all return to Clarke's room for a breakfast that apparently none of them but Octavia ate. Helena does the ordering and lounges on the floor in front of the fireplace as she munches on hers, while Clarke and Raven take the chairs. Bellamy is left to sit cross-legged on the ground beside them, and Octavia leaves her brooding corner to sit down with him. As they eat, they discuss possible plans for the day. Bellamy has asked for a one-on-one meeting with the Commander later on, but otherwise the rest of them are purposeless.

“There’s a park, there’re taverns and places to eat and shops...” Clarke is actually somewhat hesitant to reveal the library, but still says... “and a library. And there’s a marketplace. I went there last week, it has everything you could want. At least it seemed that way. I’ve never seen so many craftsmen and shopkeeps in one place.”

"There's a library?" Raven asks, incredulous.  
  
"You say that like we're a bunch of barbarians," Helena mutters.  
  
"What's a tavern?" Octavia interrupts.

Clarke is quick to defend Raven. “There is! And she didn’t mean it like that,” she attempts to reassure Helena, who does not seem mollified in the least, “it’s just that we only have a few shelves of books on the Ark. A whole library is something we’d never dreamed would still be on earth.  
  
“And a tavern is like...like if our parties on the Ark were turned into an establishment.” Octavia looks utterly baffled by that, so Clarke muddles on, “Like alcohol - different alcohol than we had, like the wine last night - is just served there. And food too, and you can just hangout at a table in front of a fire and eat and drink. I feel like I’m not selling it well, but it’s pretty great.” The memory of being at one with Lexa comes unbidden to mind. Clarke does her best to push it away, but despite her best efforts it still brings a small smile to her face.

That doesn't go unnoticed by Raven, who raises an amused eyebrow. "Looks like Clarke has enjoyed one of these taverns before."  
  
"Sounds like something I might enjoy too," Bellamy says, and nods at Clarke. "You still owe me a drink."

“I do owe you a drink. We should do that tonight...” Clarke opens her mouth to continue, then closes it and frowns. Everywhere she’s been in this city, she’s been totally unable to actually pay for anything. “We’d need money, though. Capitalism apparently survived the apocalypse.”

Bellamy and Raven chuckle, while Helena raises an eyebrow.  
  
"I might not know what capita-whats-it is..." she says, looking between them before settling on Clarke. "But I'll bet my lovely Commander would be willing to find a little spending money lying around. You know, for her honored guests." Then she snorts. "Or Elena will, more to the point."  
  
"Wait," Raven says, "There's a Helena, and an Elena?"  
  
"Never you mind!"

Clarke can’t help but laugh. She hasn’t laughed this much in...well, a long time.  
  
“I’ll ask Elena. We can all go, if you all want to - assuming that’s covered by the expenses of the Commander.”

"I wouldn't say she has deep pockets..." Helena winks, "but I'm sure we can shake some change loose."  
  
With a game plan set, the group splits up with an agreement to meet once Bellamy has finished his meeting with the Commander. That leaves Clarke time to wash up from her extra long training session - which, despite being a little embarrassing, was ultimately a relief as it wiped any memory of the night before from her mind - and inquire after some money. Still not a fan of buzzing servants up to her room, she decides to hunt Elena down while on her way to get some lunch.  
  
By the time she heads back, she has fortified herself for the afternoon and carries a loop of leather, weighed down with a number of coins made out of folded and flattened tin of different colors. Each has a hole punched in the center, and is strung on the leather thong to be hung off her belt and stuffed into her pocket. Her friends trickle back into her room one by one and when all have reconvened, they set out into the city.

Clarke mostly remembers where everything is that she’s passed by and with her own map in her head, she’s able to lead everyone. She heads the opposite way that she and Lexa had been a few days earlier, opting for the path that will lead them past the market - around which, she thinks she recalls, a couple buildings that looked like taverns.

After her experience speaking English elsewhere, it might be wise to stay closer to the city center with her three English speaking friends.  
  
Despite undoubtedly knowing the city better than Clarke, Helena decides to trail along behind, chatting with the others about life in Polis. Raven and Bellamy have left their rifles in their rooms, but even without obviously foreign tech on them, _Skaikru's_ clothing is enough to draw attention from the crowds on the street. No one tries to stop them, or otherwise interrupt their movement in the city - but many an eye does follow them as they pass. It unsettles Clarke, but she pushes down the temptation to fight or flee; her friends are the Commander's guests, and the companions of _Wanheda_. Undoubtedly that means something here.  
  
When at last they do reach the market, that attention fades and Clarke can take a deep breath. Everyone here is too busy, it seems, to take much notice of them.  
  
Her friends, on the other hand, are immediately overwhelmed. Upon turning the corner to the marketplace, their eyes go wide and they stare at everything; like Clarke, they've never seen such a thing. It takes a roll of the eyes and guiding hand from Helena to draw them further in, to look at the foods being hawked from stalls, the clothing hung up and piled on shelves. Octavia takes a particular interest in the cloaks and coats a clothier has on display, while Bellamy is drawn to a stall selling rows upon rows of bottled alcohol. Raven can't seem to keep her eyes or her hands to herself, fascinated by nearly every trinket or production process they come across. All three of them are ultimately drawn to the sound of the blacksmith's hammer, where - not unlike the back of a number of other stalls and shops they passed - a team is busy working on fresh iron and steel even as another sells their finished products.

Clarke has never owned anything larger than her knife, and has never needed anything more. Well, a knife and a pistol. But they have every kind of blade she could imagine and then some, like hammers and tongs and - is that a _mace?_  
  
The sound of hammer on steel is thankfully less grating than it was before, but it still sets Clarke on edge and she naturally shifts to the edge of the crowd surrounding the blacksmith. Which is when she notices, for the second time, the little stall next to it.  
  
“Raven, come here.” The mechanic is the closest to her and seems the best audience for this particular array of curiosities anyway. She looks up and Clarke gestures with her thumb behind them at the stall. “Check this out. It’s all stuff from before the bombs.”

Raven's eyes have been bright with curiosity since they arrived, but now they shine. She all but shoves Clarke towards the stall. "Show me!"  
  
Most of the gizmos that remain are either simple or broken. There's something that looks like a hand-cranked egg beater, a shattered picture frame, a broken computer screen. In one corner, a display of plastic and enamel clothing buttons and pins. Much is covered in dust, whether from the place it was discovered or from the simple fact that Grounders have little use for such things now, but Raven's hands paw eagerly through it anyway.  
  
"Look at this!" she laughs, picking up a small, lime green metal rectangle. "It's an iPod!"

“It’s a what?” Clarke examines the little rectangle in Raven’s hands. “That sounds familiar...didn’t someone on the Ark have one of these that they were always fixing? Or am I making that up?”

"No, you're right! But he could never get it working - it was the chip inside that was broken, and we don't have that kind of hardware on the Ark. I wonder if this one works..." she turns the electronic this way and that in her hands. "You know how the library has that collection of digital music files on its hard drives? Supposedly, one of these could hold a big chunk of those - hundreds of songs, and you wouldn't even have to check a player out of the library to do it. Just pop in some headphones and go."

“I do miss music. Or more accurately, easy access to music.” Clarke squints at the tiny hole in the device that Raven is now poking with an unbent paper clip. Where she got the paper clip, Clarke has no idea. She glances worriedly at the shopkeep, but he seems fairly unperturbed. “You’d need headphones too though.”

"And some way to charge it. I doubt that its battery still has any juice in it after a hundred--"  
  
Whatever she's doing with the paper clip works, and for a moment - just a moment - the screen flashes white, and the grey image of a partially eaten apple appears in its center. Then it goes dark again, and Raven grins at Clarke. "Looks like it's intact, though. Which is a small miracle - I half expected to pop this thing open and find nothing but corrosion and battery acid inside."

Clarke shakes her head in disbelief and chuckles. “I don’t know how you know how to do all of this, it’s amazing. But you might want to pay the man before you actually crack it open.”  
  
Beneath yet another pile of picture frames and what might’ve once been a beautiful doll but is now blackened and charred on one side, Clarke finally finds what she’s looking for. A little tin box, full of seemingly useless items. Despite all of the other beautiful - and more to the point, new - things for sale in the market, this is what she came back for.

Raven is still poking around at various bits and bobs, but when she sees Clarke pick something up, she pauses and comes over. In one hand she has her prize, the green iPod, and in the other, some kind of hollow orange cylinder made out of thick, spongey material and faded lettering printed in white on the side. On her head, she wears a pair of bent aviator sunglasses.  
  
"What'd you find?" She asks, peering over Clarke's shoulder.

“It’s like a makeshift first aid kit. All just mundane items that someone who knew about medicine put together, probably from the wa—“ Clarke pauses when she sees the bright orange object in Raven’s hands. “What is that?”

"Oh, this?" She looks down at the item, holds it up for closer inspection, and then shrugs. "I have no idea. But it's made out of some kind of non-industrial insulation material, and looks like it could fit a water bottle in it. Maybe it's to help you hold onto your drink when it's hot? Or cold?"

“Only you could come up with a use for something that looks like garbage.”

"Hey now, don't go insulting our host like that," Raven says, turning to look at the shopkeeper. "Everything here is a prize. Now hurry up and buy me my iPod."

The old shopkeeper doesn't appear to have much interest in haggling - and Clarke doesn't really have a sense of the value of the coins she hands over anyway. All she knows is that by the end of the short interaction, she has the first aid kit in her coat pocket, Raven has her iPod, and a pair of slightly crooked sunglasses perched on her nose. When they approach the blacksmith again, Octavia looks up from a dagger she's been fingering to look - and immediately cracks an incredulous grin.  
  
"What the _hell_ are those?" she asks, drawing the attention of her brother and Helena, who quickly share in her amusement as Raven strikes a pose.  
  
Turning her head first this way, then that way, she stuffs one hand in the back pocket of her pants and uses the other to tip the glasses down on her nose. Peering over the top of them at the others, Raven says, "They're my new shades, of course. Jealous?"  
  
"Maybe I will be," Octavia answers, "once you straighten them out."  
  
"I like them," Helena hums, and makes a gesture at the whole of Raven. "They just kind of...go." In response, Raven makes a show of winking and finger-gunning in Helena's direction, drawing a chuckle from Bellamy.  
  
"Alright, come on," he says, herding the group along towards the next part of the market. "Let's move on before we waste any more of the Commander's hard earned money."  
  
"Waste!" Raven scoffs, but follows anyway. "I beg to differ."  
  
They sample some of the hot foods on offer, to warm their extremities a bit on this bitter cold day. There's a stall that sells jewelry, one that sells tools, yet another dedicated entirely to - Helena provides the word - scrimshaw. Bellamy is tempted there by a whistle carved out of some kind of bird bone, but walks away without it.  
  
As the sun sets, men and women dressed in leather make their way through the streets with long torches, lighting braziers around the edges of the marketplace so that trade can continue even as it grows dark. Some time after that happens, the cold eventually drives the group into the door of a nearby tavern, its sign heralding it as the Green Dragon.

Where the Hanged Man had been raucous, the Green Dragon is merely full. Bodies of all shapes and sizes, with various styles and quality of dress, occupy the many tables that surround a massive, blazing hearth set into the wall at the right. A long bar runs the length of the far wall, and turns the corner to line a bit of the wall to their left, before ending at a door that enters into an unseen room. Above them, a loft holds yet more tables, and it's up at one of them that the group manages to find a spot.  
  
"So this is a tavern?" Bellamy hums. He's seated himself at the side of the table nearest the loft's edge, so he can peer down and watch the people below them. He drums his hands on the table and grins. "Seems like my kind of place."

Clarke sits across from him and watches the people below as well, more at ease with her friends beside her but still wary of a large crowd. “I thought you’d like it.” She tilts her head down toward the bar. “Come help me get drinks for everyone.”

"Aren't you going to ask what everyone wants first, Clarke?" Helena asks with a raised eyebrow, which causes confusion for the others.  
  
"What," Raven says, "like, there are different kinds?"

“I...didn’t know there were different kinds either.” Clarke feels just as confused as Raven sounds. First wine, then ale, now...kinds of ale? “Care to illuminate us, Helena?”

"Well there's dark ale and red ale and a lighter ale," Helena says, ticking them off on her fingers. "Red wine and white wine. And dark and light liquors. It's all about the color, really."  
  
Bellamy, Raven, and Octavia all exchange looks, and then Octavia looks at Clarke. "What is she talking about?"

Clarke looks between them all, suddenly unsure how she became the expert on all this. “Well I don’t know what white wine is...I thought there was just wine, in general, but I guess I’ve tried red wine...I mean it was red, anyway...you know what, I’ll just grab a few different things. We can all try them. Sound good?”

The group agrees, and Bellamy and Clarke rise to head to the bar.  
  
"Taverns, markets, libraries..." Bellamy says, walking at an easy pace beside Clarke. "Sounds like you've been settling in here pretty well."

Clarke watches his face, concerned that like Raven and Octavia, he’ll take this opportunity that they’re alone to fight her decision to stay. So much pressure to leave might just break her resolve. But for now at least, he seems sincere.  
  
“It took a while, and I don’t exactly feel settled in.” She leans over the bar and orders one of everything Helena listed. The woman behind the counter looks skeptically between her and Bellamy, but nods and begins to pour everything. “But I guess it’s better than living in a cave in the mountains. In some ways, anyway.”

"Is that really what you were doing?" he asks, grinning as he leans on the bar beside her. He rests on his elbows, hands folded in front of him. "Living in caves? I'd always imagined...I dunno what I imagined. A Grounder village somewhere, maybe. Or a tree house - very Swiss Family Robinson. But a cave?"

“A treehouse?” Clarke scoffs. “You think too highly of my carpentry skills. There were some Grounder villages, but I was alone most of the time.” She knocks into his shoulder with her own and says, genuinely, “I missed you. I missed all of you, but I’m particularly glad I finally get to buy you a drink of...whatever it is we’re about to drink.”

"Yeah, what the heck did she say it was? Ale?" He shrugs, and despite the grin on his face, his eyes are soft and serious as he says, "I missed you, too. The others won't admit it, Octavia is too proud and Raven is a pain, but they miss you too. Monty, Miller, Lincoln, and Jasper do, too. They send their regards."

“I’m sure they thought they’d be giving me them in person.” Clarke sighs and runs a hand through her hair. Her chest suddenly aches at the idea of not seeing them all again for three months - maybe more. “I wish I could go back with you. I will go back, when winter is over and the clan chiefs return. Even if Raven and Octavia can’t see it, I can do so much for us if I’m here.”

"I believe you. More than that, I trust you," he says. "If this is where you think you're needed, then this is where you'll be. Besides..." He pauses as a row of five mugs are placed in front of him. Three fizz with ale, the fourth Clarke recognizes as red wine, and she guesses the fifth is its white counterpart. "I suspected you might not be coming back for a while."

“Did my disappearing without a trace give it away?” Clarke pays the woman and grabs two cups, gesturing at Bellamy to grab the others. “I’m back though. I won’t disappear again. And for the record, your trust is important to me. I won’t let you down. If I can help it, anyway.”

"I don't think there's many if's in this place," he says, scooping the additional three cups up between both hands. He doesn't seem to mean _this_ place, though - Polis isn't the only part of this new world that doesn't abide mistakes.  
  
They array the cups on the table before the group, one of each type of ale and one each of white and red wine. Before they can say much of anything about how to share them, Helena reaches forward and picks up the mug full of dark ale.  
  
"I'llllllll take that," she says, leaning forward and across the table to pick it up. In the process she comes within range of Raven, who promptly smacks her hand.  
  
"Isn't the whole point that we're supposed to try them all?" she asks, and puts a foot up on the corner of her own chair as she picks up the cup Helena drops. Her eyes remain on Helena's as she raises it to her lips...and then immediately gags, coughing, and puts it down. Raven waves a hand in Helena's direction, the other covering her mouth. "Oh, God - never mind, that's all yours."  
  
Helena, for her part, is smirking. "That's what I thought," she says, picking up the drink and sitting back in her chair.

Clarke laughs and reaches for whatever is closest to her. “Maybe we just let her have that one.”  
  
She lands on one of the other ales and takes a sip. It’s good, but light, somehow? When she tries the other one, she realizes why - it has less of that bread-y taste and tastes more. Fizzy? Clarke would have a hard time explaining any of these sensations, but she sips the second one again and says, “I like...what did you say it was, the red ale?”

"Is it more red than the other ones?" Helena asks. "That one is more middle of the road - the darker the ale, the more bitter it's going to be."  
  
"That one is black," Raven says, nose still scrunched as she eyes the cup in Helena's hand. The _Floukru_ chieftain nods with a smirk.  
  
"Exactly."  
  
They pass the cups between the rest of them, sampling from each of the different types of alcohol. Octavia settles quickly on the red wine, which receives little argument from the others. Raven, after some debate with Clarke, lays claim to the lighter ale, leaving only Clarke and Bellamy to make their choice. Which results in both of them reaching for the red ale at the same time.  
  
"Well hang on, hang on," he says, wagging a finger at the cup. "I'm your guest, aren't I? That means I get the cup I want."

"Technically you're Lexa's guest, and I don't think the rules of etiquette apply here." She clearly means here as in: in this tavern, in this city, on this planet. Clarke moves her shoulders up in a conciliatory, shrug motion, but then quickly reaches out and snatches the cup before Bellamy can get a handle on it. "Winning is winning." She takes a sip and grins at him over the top of the cup. "But if you're nice to me, I'll share it with you."

"What the hell!" Bellamy's hand goes up with the demand. "But I don't want this!" He points at the cup of white wine. "Octavia says it's sweet!"  
  
"I didn't say you wouldn't like it," the woman in question says pointedly, lifting her own cup. "Only that I didn't."

"Oh just try it, you big baby." Clarke scoots the cup in question closer to him. He looks at it a little skeptically. "You might like it."

He grumbles, but proceeds to pick up the cup and take a tentative sip. He makes a show of not liking it at first, but by the time a second round is called for, he asks for another.  
  
"Seriously?" Raven asks then, eyebrow raised. "After all that, you don't want the ale?"  
  
"Yeah," he shrugs, unapologetic and unashamed. "I actually kinda like it. It's refreshing."  
  
"...right."  
  
As they drink, and eventually eat, the walls that circumstance has built between them fall away. The spontaneous party that had gripped the original hundred at the dropship camp comes to Clarke's mind again, and she has a pang of nostalgia and sadness grip her heart. That hadn't been that long ago, less than a year, and yet...so much has changed. She thinks of Wells. She thinks of Finn. She thinks of how much more innocent they all had been then.

But, just as her mood threatens to dip into melancholy, Helena pulls a coin out of her pocket, and instructs everyone to put their fists on the table. What ensues is a ridiculous game that has them all taking turns flicking the coin at each others' knuckles, with anyone who flinches drinking from their cup. It's dumb and pointless, but so little in her world can be described as such and Clarke relishes in the way it makes her friends laugh. For a few hours, they all forget that they aren't just kids.  
  
As the game winds down, Octavia excuses herself without much explanation and returns to the tower. A band - much smaller, and somewhat less skilled than the one Clarke heard at the festival - begins to play downstairs, and Helena takes Raven down to get a closer look. Leaving just Clarke and Bellamy alone at the table.

Clarke sips from a cup - is it her third or fourth? She can’t remember - and watches as a little group in front of the band begins dancing. “You think she really wanted to get a closer look, or is Helena just trying to get Raven alone?”

"Yes. I think the answer's yes," Bellamy chuckles, lifting his cup to his lips. He leans over the table now, a little slumped in his chair under the influence of the alcohol. "Who'd've thought Grounders go in for this star-crossed lovers crap."

"What do you mean?" Clarke watches Helena not so subtly put an arm around Raven's shoulders and lean closer to whisper something in her ear. "They seem star-crossed to you?"

Bellamy shrugs at that, fiddling with the handle of his mug. "Grounders. Sky People. It's not exactly Romeo and Juliet, but it's close. Not that it's gonna come to that, I mean, Raven seems kinda oblivious, but."

Clarke chuckles. “She does, doesn’t she? Funny how obvious the problem with a broken machine is to her, but flirting goes over her head.”  
  
The knuckles on her left hand crack as she flexes them, the barely dried blood cracking along with them. She’d gotten pretty good at flinging the coin across the table, but unfortunately not as good as Octavia or her brother. “We’re all Grounders now though, aren’t we? We have a different name, different tech - but we’re all stuck here.”

Bellamy snorts. "You'd have an easier time convincing them the sky is red," he says. "The Grounders have more in common with each other than they do with us."

“After everything, you really think that’s true?” Now Raven is pointing at a makeshift drum set and gesturing dramatically while Helena laughs next to her. “I hope it’s not. Otherwise we may never make peace with them.”

He lets that comment rest for a time, watching the antics of those below. Then he sits back, and studies her. "You know. There's something I've been wanting to ask you."

“Is there?” Clarke meets his eyes. “What’s that?”

"You've been here for little over a week, the 'guest' of the Commander. But the last time you saw her was at the Mountain." He pauses, scrutinizing her before asking, "How's that going?"  
  
It's an understatement of a question, _how's that going_ , but it feels intentional. In leaving it open ended, he is letting Clarke answer it in any way she wishes - which, in some cases, could be answer enough.

"How's that going..." Clarke swirls the now room temperature ale around in her cup, mentally sifting through the many retorts that instantly come to mind. They run together, too many thoughts and feelings at once, making her exhale loudly in frustration. "I don't know, is the short answer. Terribly, when I first arrived. She had me dragged here, did I tell you that? Apparently because Nia was trying to find me, for some unknown nefarious purpose, so her guards found me first and brought me here on the back of a horse like a sack of potatoes."

"You said they had found you and escorted you here," he grins, "'Dragged like a sack of potatoes' paints a slightly different picture."

"Well it was exactly like a sack of potatoes. Or what I imagine a sack of potatoes would go through on the back of a horse."  
  
Clarke shifts her chair sideways and sticks her feet up on Octavia's now empty one. "It's been rough, being back in general. And being around Lexa. I almost killed her, once." Bellamy raises an eyebrow at that and Clarke waves a hand dismissively. "I didn't, obviously. But I could have. I don't know, I don't think I'll ever forgive her for what she did. But - and I hate myself a little for admitting this, for the record - it's been nice to work with her again. I don't know, it's like one half of me is stuck in a loop. Back on the Mountain, watching her walk away. With you, pulling that switch. Over and over again. But the other half...the other half wants to forgive her. Somehow, if I can." She sighs and rubs a temple with the hand not currently occupied with a cup. "I don't know, I'm rambling."

He nods sympathetically as he listens, his eyes on the table instead of on her. He scratches his finger against its surface, feeling out a knot in the wood that stretches down below his palm. When she finishes he's quiet a moment, then says, "D'you know, I buried them?"

Clarke's throat constricts, making it nearly impossible to swallow. She puts her cup back down on the table and looks at Bellamy, more closely now. "You buried them? All of them?"

"Not by myself, obviously," he says. His eyes go distant, even as he stares at the table. "We weren't sure what to do with them, at first. The Grounders burn their dead, we spaced ours. But we couldn't figure out what the Mountain Men did. Some people wanted to bury them in the clearing, in front of the vault door. But that seemed..." He tips his hand up, his face twisting. "People would be coming in and out of that door, and they'd have to cross the clearing to do it.  
  
"So Kane organized a group of us. We built a bunch of stretchers, went down to the lower levels, and carried them out. One by one, we brought them out, and up to a patch of clear ground we found on the mountain's slope. They'd lived their whole lives underground, most of them, so it felt...somehow wrong, to put them in it again. But maybe they'll appreciate being in a place where the sun shines, at least."

Clarke digests that, slowly. It brings those memories back, to think of the people in the Mountain. Dead and lying underground, forgotten - but now resting beneath a sky they’d never see. It doesn’t feel terrible in the same way: in fact, it makes her chest ache, again, with guilt.  
  
“They would’ve, I think. I think that’s what they always wanted. I’m so sorry, Bellamy. I should have been there with you.” Bellamy only looks up at her after another several, long moments. “That decision, to kill them all, haunts me nearly every day. But you were there to help me, whatever I chose. I wish I had been with you to see through the repercussions of it.”

"You could have been," he answers, and there's suddenly an edge to his voice - but it's gone as quickly as it came as he catches himself, and looks away again. "Raven says you had good reason to do it. And it helps to know you were dragged here, weirdly. Not because you were _dragged_ here, that sounds horrible," he chuckles at himself, "but that you didn't just. Choose them over us, or something."  
  
Bellamy sits forward then, hands folded on the table. “I didn't always trust you, Clarke. When we first landed, I thought I had all the answers and didn't need your help - but I learned pretty quickly that was a mistake. I trusted you that day, and I trust you now. I know you know what needs to be done, and I know what you can do. That's always been the important part to me."

It's ridiculous, and it's probably the beer more than anything, but Clarke has to swallow the urge to cry. "You're my family, Bell. You, my mother, Raven - even Octavia," Bellamy chuckles again at that. "I would never betray you, or choose anyone over you. Our people need us and I plan to be around to help them.  
  
"I told Raven this, but you deserve to know it too." Clarke swings her legs back down from the chair they were on and leans forward, mirroring Bellamy's posture. "I scared myself, that day. I didn't just make that decision because it would save people I love. Part of it was about anger. Revenge, maybe, even. I was so fucking angry at Lexa for betraying us. I couldn't get it out of my head - not when I flipped that switch, and not since - and I hated myself for that. Not the being angry with her part, but the letting that anger drive my decision part. I don't want to be that kind of leader, we deserve better than that."

At that, Clarke nearly does cry. When was the last time someone asked her if she was okay? And meant it? She takes a moment to compose herself - and in that moment, takes a gulp of ale. Despite being room temperature now, it does actually help a little. Somehow.  
  
"I'm...better. I think. Being with all of you has been amazing, I missed you so much. It makes me realize that I'm ready to be back. Whether that's here now, or at home with you in a few months. But I don't know, I never would have thought being here would help at all, of all places. I wanted to kill Lexa when I got here and that was maybe ten days ago. But now...I don't want to kill her. I actually enjoy spending time with her, if you can believe it." Clarke chuckles and rolls her eyes at herself. "Still a low bar, obviously, but. There it is."

"I mean, going from killing someone to liking being around them in a week's time is a pretty quick turn around," he laughs, taking a drink from his cup. "How'd she convince you to do the - what is it - One _Heda?_ Thing?"  
  
" _Wanheda_ ," Clarke corrects in a grumble, rolling her eyes.  
  
"Right, that - how'd she get you to do the _Wanheda_ thing, anyway? All that pageantry you were describing sounds like it's way out of your league."

“It was absolutely out of my league!” Clarke laughs. “I hate that title. But she made the point that embracing it would give me more influence among the clan chiefs, and she was right. Some liked me and some were wary, but almost all of them spoke to me as an equal. Even if we don’t have an alliance with the Coalition, having a relationship with the clan chiefs can only help us. And it seems, after the Mountain, that I’m in a unique position to do that now.”

"That's what Helena was saying. Despite that ass kicking she gave you earlier, she apparently respects you," he teases. "So how was it, actually? What's an all out Grounder party like?"

“It’s pretty fun. Politics aside,” Clarke says, ignoring his not so subtle jab at her fighting abilities. “There was live music and dancing, and tons of food. And a lot of wine. I just had wine for the first time a few days ago, but I’ve never seen so much alcohol in one place. It makes our parties on the Ark look like casual gatherings. Which, I guess they were. And everyone, especially the chiefs, had these elaborate costumes. Lexa was wearing this incredible red dress. An honest to god _dress_ , Bell. Who’d ever think she has more than black pants and cloaks in her wardrobe, but she looked incredible...”  
  
Clarke pauses, her mouth still slightly open from speaking, and quickly clamps it shut when she realizes what she’s been rambling about. “Well everyone looked incredible,” she amends, lamely.

"Did they now?" He asks, eyebrows raised as he grins at her. "What was Helena wearing, then? Or that kid - Ronnie?"

“Ronnie always wears black, and Helena had some sort of armor...” Bellamy’s grin grows wider and Clarke kicks him in the shin under the table. “There were a lot of people there, I don’t remember all of them. So what?”

"Ow!" he cries, bending down to hug his bruised shin even as he laughs. " _So,_ apparently the Commander left a big impression! But no one else did!"

Clarke pulls a face at him and sips her ale. “She often does,” she admits when she’s finished. “I don’t really have a good defense. Despite everything, I do seem to, annoyingly...” she struggles for the right word. How to describe the way she’s constantly aware of the Commander’s whereabouts when they’re together? How she spends so much time analyzing her expressions and tone of voice without even realizing it? “...notice,” she finally gives up and decides on, “her more often than anyone else.”

"Yeah," he hums. "Weird how all that forgiveness welling up makes you watch a person more.”

“If you’re not careful, I’ll kick you again,” Clarke only half teases. “I haven’t forgiven her. Not fully. She’s just distracting sometimes, that’s all.”  
  
Bellamy gives her the most incredulous look and Clarke sighs, exasperated. “Fine, yes, she’s distracting because she’s pretty, is that what you want to hear? That’s true, but she’s also annoying. And stubborn, and all...self-important.”

"Soooooo you like her, is what I'm hearing?"  
  
Bellamy's chair scrapes against the floor as he jerks back, narrowly avoiding Clarke's promised kick. "Ah ah ah," he tuts, pointing at her. "You know, it occurs to me that I don't really know what your relationship with the Commander _is_. I know she likes you, more than she likes any of us."

“Probably not a crazy high bar.”  
  
Now it’s Clarke’s turn to scramble out of the way of a kick. “Alright fine, fine! I like her. She and I...work. Together well. In a lot of ways. I don’t really know how else to describe it, it’s both weirdly easy and absurdly hard to be around her.” Clarke sighs and pushes her cup away. There wasn’t much left in it anyway, and she doesn’t feel like finishing it. “I don’t know how I could even still be...entertaining, I guess, the idea of having feelings for her. After what she did. I don’t even know how that’s possible, to be so angry with someone and yet, on some weird, indistinct level...I don’t want to say that it doesn’t matter, because it does. But some part of me wants to let it go, even while the rest of me can’t.”

Bellamy begins to frown a little bit at this, as though this is news to him. "How long have you been feeling like this, exactly?" he asks. "I mean, have you two ever...?" His eyebrows raise and voice drifts off suggestively.

"No, we haven't." Clarke shrugs. "We almost did, once. Before the Mountain. But I didn't feel ready, after Finn, and now...well things are a little complicated now. A little more complicated."

"A little more complicated," Bellamy echoes, sighing. The levity slips out of him a little, and he eyes Clarke sympathetically. "Star-crossed lovers, indeed."

"This is not Romeo and Juliet." Clarke turns back the way she was before, feet up on a chair next to her and torso turned to face Bellamy, in an effort to seem - and truly, feel - more casual. "No one is star-crossed, and we aren't lovers..."  
  
Clarke trails off, suddenly unsure how to follow that up. They _aren't_ lovers - and also, ew, that word is terrible. But...she'd be lying to herself if she tried to deny her feelings for the Commander anymore. What she said is true, she doesn't know if she'll ever really forgive Lexa. But that doesn't change that along with the anger and hurt, Clarke can't stop herself from feeling something more for her. She's spent so much energy trying to deny it, but now that she's finally let herself think and say it out loud...  
  
Bellamy looks at her expectantly and Clarke realizes he's waiting for her to finish. "I don't know. I don't know what to do about it. I think the smart thing is to do nothing, but - and I don't know if you know this about me, but - sometimes I don't think entirely with my head."

“And yet you plan to stay here, with her, for upwards of three months," he says with a grin. The sound of boots on the stairs nearby herald the return of Raven and Helena, who come into view just as Bellamy shakes his head and says, "I hope you know what you're doing, Clarke."

"I hope I do too," she mutters.  
  
"You guys enjoy yourselves?" she asks as Raven shoves Clarke's feet unceremoniously off her chair.

"Instruments are weird," Raven declares, flopping into the newly freed chair. Helena sits down across from her, grinning.  
  
"They apparently don't teach anyone about them where you come from," Helena teases. As she talks, Bellamy reaches forward and picks up Clarke's abandoned cup, taking a drink from what remains. "Your genius over here couldn't get her head around it."  
  
"I could _get my head around it_ ," Raven grumps. "Physics is still physics, even if it's being blown through a wooden tube. But it's still weird."

"They taught us about instruments, we just didn't have any." Clarke clarifies. "I think someone had a guitar, somewhere. I vaguely recall that it was so warped and out of tune, it sounded more like metal scraping on wood than music. Nothing like the guitars here."

Helena snorts. "I should hope that's not what you hear when our guitars play."  
  
"We get it, your music is awesome." Raven makes a show of rolling her eyes, but she's grinning at Helena. "It's no _The Ramones_ , though."  
  
"You _know_ I don't know what that means."  
  
"Yeah well, give me a few weeks. I have an iPod now."

"You might have to wait more than a few weeks." Clarke gestures out the window closest to them downstairs. It's getting late, but they're still able to see sheets of snow blowing around the street outside. "I don't think even the four wheelers will be able to get through that pretty soon."

"And you'll have to go farther than Polis to show me," Helena says, tapping on the table. "I'll be leaving soon, too."  
  
"Wait, you don't stay here?"  
  
The conversation descends into Helena explaining to the other two the layout of the clans' territories, and where her home with _Floukru_ is in relation to the Coalition's capital. She makes use of the empty and mostly empty cups still on the table to mark out landmarks that form a hazy map, which Clarke overlays with the information she's collected from dossiers to form a clearer picture. That also means, though, that she doesn't have to ask as many questions as the others, and is left mostly to listen as her tipsy friends try to map out the known world on a bar table.

Clarke watches Helena's hands move across the table, gesturing to various cups and coins that are meant to indicate landmarks. The implications of her conversation with Bellamy begins to weigh on her to the point where she mostly falls silent while the others pester Helena about geography and distance measurements. How had this even happened? Though it is annoying, it's not hard to admit that she's been avoiding thinking about her feelings for Lexa. Ever since the Mountain, that's been true. She can't help how she feels, but she can ignore it. She's only allowed herself to feel anger toward her, maybe a neutral feeling here or there, but anything more has been solidly shoved to the back of her mind.  
  
But today had been so fun, and felt so normal. She's finally with her friends again and, even though she had needed to leave them when she did, she'd missed them so much. It's been easy to let her guard down, especially tonight while they've been drinking and laughing together like old times. Bellamy hadn't judged her, or told her what to do - not like Raven or Octavia certainly would. He just listened. He understands the position she's in better than anyone, which is probably why she hadn't noticed until it was too late how much she was sharing.  
  
Clarke has never questioned her ability to make decisions until the Mountain, and she spent four months on her own because of it. She's always trusted her instincts because they've always served her well, and her instincts tell her to stay here. To help her people in a way that only she can, to make her time away from them worthwhile not only for herself, but for their collective wellbeing and survival. It feels like the right choice, even now, but admitting her feelings for the Commander out loud makes her wonder how much of her instincts are truly serving the good of her people - and if there isn't, once again, some part of this decision that has everything to do with Lexa.

By the time Bellamy sets down Clarke's now empty cup with a clack of finality, the group is ready to meander home. They speculate on Octavia's whereabouts as they make their way back through the now quiet market, and Bellamy pokes his head in her room upon their return to the tower. She is, as Clarke suspected, there, safe, and utterly intolerant of her friends' drink-induced loopiness. Rather than answer their questions about her evening, she shuts the door in their face.  
  
With no further entertainment, they decide to call it quits for the night. Clarke returns to her room, somehow both lighthearted and preoccupied; she feels so much better after spending time with them all, but her conversation with Bellamy refuses to stray from her thoughts for long. Luckily, she has her books to put her to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy is a himbo, we don't make the rules ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	13. What We Deserve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: This chapter is rated E! For adult themes!
> 
> (Spoiler: it's sex.)
> 
> Please act accordingly.
> 
> TW: oral sex, penetration

The following morning is, for once, uneventful. Raven and Octavia show up for training again, but neither cast so much as a look in Lexa's direction - which cannot quite be said of Clarke, whose stomach moves uncomfortably every time the Commander comes into view. But training with Ronnie goes as planned, and it's only on returning to her room that her routine is interrupted.  
  
"Clarke!" It's Bellamy's voice, calling her from down the hallway just as she reaches her door. "I was about to go look for you," he says as he approaches, then nods in the direction of her room. He has the strap of a backpack over one shoulder. "Have you got a minute?"

"Of course." Clarke opens the door and gestures inside.  
  
As Bellamy enters the contents of his backpack make a clinking sound, like metal on metal. Clarke leans against the inside of the door and eyes the bag, intrigued. "What's up?"

"We're planning to head out later today," he says, and goes to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. Swinging the bag off his shoulder, he sets it down on one of the chairs and unzips the top. "The weather promises to be pretty clear, and if we don't have to wait for you to wrap up whatever you're doing here to go with us, I figured..."  
  
His voice drifts off as he starts to root around in the bag. "Anyway, I brought a few things for you, in case my suspicion was right and you decided you weren't coming back yet."

Clarke's stomach drops when he says that they'll be leaving, but she knew it was coming. He's right: they came here for her, and if she's not going with them, there's no reason to stay and risk the journey back becoming more dangerous.  
  
"You brought things for me?" She walks over and clears away the books on the chair and the table. "Like what?"

"Like one of Raven's latest tricks," he says, and pulls out a device she's never seen before. He holds out the item to her, a rectangular box of a thing with a small screen on one side - not even half an inch thick, it spans the length of the handheld device and could, she thinks, hold about a line of text - and a compact keyboard below it. On the other, a solar panel is stuck to its back.  
  
"That's a communicator." Bellamy leaves off searching the bag's contents as he explains. "She has some fun name for it, but I wasn't listening close enough to remember it. It's solar powered," he indicates the panel on the back, "and only has one channel, but it's long range and connects to a partner device. That's back at the Ark. As long as it's charged, it can send and receive short messages - maybe twenty words or so - to and from the other one. So if something happens in Arkadia, we can keep you informed."

A way to talk to her friends, to her mother...a direct, if small, way to communicate with home. Clarke's eyes do well up in tears now, and it has nothing to do with ale. She launches herself at Bellamy, taking him by surprise and throwing him off balance, but he manages to right himself before falling over. "Thank you." Her words are muffled in his jacket, but clear enough for him to hear. She extracts herself from his arms and wipes her eyes, feeling only a little sheepish at the short outburst. "Not that I expect to be receiving or sending anything other than reports or updates, but it's still better than having no way to communicate for a few months. More than better, it's amazing. Thank you."

"Uh...sure," he grins, a little sheepish himself. "You're gonna want to keep it in a window or something, the battery on it isn't that great. And yeah, it isn't really built to sustain whole conversations. But it's something. I'll let Abby know you have it, as soon as we're back. I'm sure she'll want to let you know she's there; we practically had to tie her down when we left, she was so eager to see you.  
  
"There's also a couple shirts in here, some other basic comfort stuff." Bellamy sticks his hand in the bag again and pulls out first one, then two henleys, and tosses them on the chair Clarke just cleared. "We weren't sure what the clothing situation was, but Raven figured you might want some of your own stuff."

Clarke laughs and shakes her head in disbelief. "What, you thought I wouldn't have clothes? Grounders aren't that bad." She fingers the familiar, worn cotton of the shirts. One light blue one and one tan one. Her favorites. "I admit though, I have missed them. You spend months in the same three shirts, you start to grow attached to them."

"Yeah, well," he shrugs. "You can thank Raven for those. I'm not that smart."  
  
The bag isn't empty, but it looks much less full now. Bellamy sticks his hand in one last time and pulls out something heavy and jet black; Clarke starts when she recognizes it as a holstered handgun. "This, though, _is_ from me," he says, and hands it to her. "There's a box of ammunition and an extra magazine in here. I know we're trying to be friendly with the Coalition, but..." he shrugs. "You never know when things might go south. And I'd rather you be prepared if they do."

Clarke hesitates before taking the gun, but she does take it. Even after all that training with Ronnie, and she's sure continued training in the coming months, there's no way she could match anyone in this city with a sword. Polis may be growing on her, but she's lived in this world long enough to know just how easily she could find herself in danger - and how much she'll want a weapon she's trained to use if that's the case.  
  
"Thanks, Bell. I hope I don't have to use it, but I'll keep it somewhere safe. And close by," she adds, and he nods.

"Good," he says, "And...thank you. It'll make me feel better knowing that you have some protection. Not that I want you to have to use it, either."

"Nobody will be traveling much in or out of the city once winter's truly here. I don't think there will be any trouble. But still, if I can't keep you safe myself, I'm glad to have some backup in the event that there is."  
  
Clarke puts the gun back in the bag and shoves the whole thing under the side of the bed she would sleep on - if she ever slept in it. "When are you all planning to leave?"

"We'll stay for lunch," he says, turning to look out the window. The grey clouds have parted to let in a mostly sunny sky, the snow that blankets the city's rooftops glittering in the light. "Head out after. With the buggies, it shouldn't take us more than a few hours to get back, even without roads and loads of snow on the ground."

"One final taste of Tera's cooking before having to endure months of canned food will do you good," she winks at him. Then, in a more serious tone, "If you need anything, tell me. Whether it's food or protection or anything, tell my mother to send me a message. I'll make sure we get whatever we need, that's why I'm here."

Bellamy nods. "The same goes for you. Like you said, we might not be able to travel back and forth much, but there are sometimes traders. And the Commander has sent shipments of flour and stuff to us before, and probably will again before the winter's over. Worst comes to worst, we can always send something along with them on the return trip."

Clarke grins. "In case I need another henley?"

Bellamy grins right back. "Exactly."  
  
They part ways until lunchtime, which is held once again in the dining room on the main floor. This meal is much more lively than the one two days ago, with Helena, Raven, and Bellamy talking now as friends rather than diplomats. Even Octavia is talkative, adding input at regular intervals and - to Clarke's surprise - talking amicably with Indra in Trigedasleng. Titus is absent this time and though Lexa remains her usual quiet self, there is an ease about her answers that matches the atmosphere.  
  
"It seems your friends have become acclimated rather quickly," she says to Clarke at one point, an aside amidst an argument between Octavia and Bellamy. The cut on her cheek seems to have remained unperturbed since her sparring session with Octavia, and though its length is still visible, the scab itself has shrunk towards its center.

"It does seem that way, doesn't it? Certainly they like Helena well enough - though I guess that's no surprise." Clarke hasn't actively been avoiding Lexa, but she hasn't sought her out in the past twelve hours either. The Commander probably wouldn't think much of it, both because Clarke's friends are here and there hasn't been much time for them to have a conversation in the first place. But this is the first time they've spoken since yesterday morning, and somehow it feels...different. "I should thank you for financing our adventures yesterday. Maybe someday I'll get used to the idea of money...though even as I say that, I doubt it. I still don't know which coins have what value, I'm sure I either over or underpaid everyone I met."

"Elena did mention that you had plans. I hope your second trip to a tavern proved to be less eventful than the first." She somehow manages to say this with a straight face, her eyes on her meal. "But it was no great sum. It was also the least that I could do; the better we understand each other as peoples, the easier it will be to build a partnership."

"I agree. And will remind you that you said that," Clarke pauses to swallow a spoonful of stew, "next time you get exasperated with me for explaining something that you don't immediately understand."

"I resent that," Lexa says, and now she glances up at Clarke from the corner of her eye. "I do not become exasperated."

Clarke raises her eyebrows. "Okay, Commander. Whatever you say."

"No matter," she says dismissively, in a way that absolutely does not convince Clarke she is not becoming exasperated. "I understand that they have made provisions to leave with the same number they arrived with. Does this mean you have chosen to stay here?"

Clarke nods. "Yes, I have. I really think I can help my people best from here, at least through this first winter and they..." she glances around the table, at her friends still laughing and poking fun at each other, and sighs. "Well, they mostly agree. It's been a difficult choice."

"I imagine that it has," Lexa nods, and there is honest empathy in her voice. No stranger to difficult choices, it's unlikely that Clarke's conundrum has gone without consideration on her part. "But I can say, on behalf of the Coalition, that we will be glad to have you."  
  
When lunch finishes, Clarke goes with Bellamy, Octavia, and Raven to collect their gear from their rooms. The levity that had characterized their interactions of the last twelve hours or so dampens in the face of their impending departure, and everyone moves just a bit more slowly than they have to. When they do have their bags and weapons on their backs, they take the lift down to meet the rest of _Skaikru's_ security forces who have already gathered in the foyer with Lexa, Helena, Indra, and Titus.

Despite her plans to stay, Clarke falls naturally in line between Bellamy and Raven. Just because they're leaving doesn't mean her allegiance has changed, and even through Lexa's official send off Clarke remains where she is.

Bellamy thanks the Commander for her protection and her hospitality while they were her guests, and echoes her spoken confidence in the relationship between their two peoples going forward. Then, with that done and the sun beginning its gradual descent towards the western horizon, there is nothing left to keep them there. But as two members of Lexa's honor guard peel off from their fellows to lead _Skaikru_ through the gates, Clarke can't yet bear to let them leave. Instead, she joins Bellamy, Octavia, and Raven on the long walk through the city, to where their transports have remained under guard at Polis' main gate.  
  
The 'buggies,' as Bellamy called them, are boxy vehicles sitting on massive, thick wheels, their various openings and windows guarded by cages of bars. As they approach the two of them, Raven steps forward and slaps the front hood of one.  
  
"Aren't they beautiful?" she asks, looking at them fondly. "The Mountain Men kept them nice and shiny, but they could barely run when we got our hands on them. Now, they could mow down a tree if we wanted them to."

"I don't doubt it." Clarke eyes the wheels and the front bumper, coated in metal and what look like tiny spikes. "Hope they can manage as well in snow as they can against foliage. What do you use for gas?"

"The Mountain had a supply of gasoline," Bellamy says, eying the Grounder guards warily as he does. He seems hesitant to talk too much about the Mountain - and _Skaikru's_ occupation of it - in front of their tentative allies. Perhaps wisely so. "A surprising amount, considering they don't seem to have had any way to produce it. It'll run out eventually, obviously, and we'll have to figure out what to do once it does. But until that happens..."

"I'm sure by that time Raven will have come up with some brilliant solution," Clarke slaps an arm around Raven's shoulders. "Isn't that right, genius?"

Raven rolls her eyes in response. She hands her bag to Bellamy, who's already packing up one of the trucks. "Honestly, no wonder you want to stay here. You and Helena are made for each other."

"I don't think it's me she's interested in." Raven's cheeks turn the littlest bit pink. She busies herself packing up the next buggie, muttering as she does.  
  
Octavia stowed her gear quickly and now stands to the right of Bellamy, watching him pack. Clarke moves to stand next to her. "Take care of them for me, alright?"

Octavia looks at her from the corner of her eye. "I don't think my protection is the protection they need," she says. She allows herself the tiniest of grins then, and adds, "But I'll do my best to save them from their own stupidity."

"That's really more of a threat than anything else, isn't it?" Clarke chuckles. She turns to Octavia and doesn't think twice - just grabs the other girl's shoulder and yanks her in for a hug. "I'll miss you. Stay safe."

She stiffens under the force of the hug, but after a moment - as Bellamy did - she relaxes. Eventually, her arms close around Clarke in turn. "Yeah. You too."  
  
"Hey!" Raven appears from the back of the vehicle again, her arms held out to either side. "What am I? Chopped liver??"

"Can you just not handle me showing affection to anyone else?" Clarke laughs and releases Octavia, who looks equal parts relieved and sincere, and runs over to Raven. She is absolutely not prepared and makes an _oof_ sound as Clarke grabs her up in a bear hug. "Better?"

"Much," Raven laughs, and hugs her back just as hard. "I just can't stand the idea of you wasting affection on people who are less deserving, that's all."

“My affection is equally meted out, I assure you. Which obviously means you have most of it.” Raven’s bent sunglasses sit on top of her head and Clarke flips them down, making them fall on her nose. “I’ll expect to experience a working iPod when I next see you.”

"I'll be sure to load only the best songs," she says, and steps back. "It'll be the best curated collection in the world."

“It’ll be the _only_ curated collection in the world.” Clarke takes her friend in, looking her up and down. Memorizing her, she realizes. A habit she’d picked up when saying goodbye ever since she came to Earth - just in case. “Bellamy gave me the communication device you made. If you need anything, use it. Or if you just miss me."

"You know, when he proposed possibly giving it to you, I sorely regretted not giving it more bandwidth," she sighs, shaking her head. "Monty has been working on some amazing erotic friend-fiction that I now won't be able to share with you."  
  
Before Clarke can determine if she's kidding or not, Bellamy approaches to take his turn. Without hesitation, he pulls her into a hug. "You take care of yourself, okay?"

“You too. Don’t let Octavia or my mother push you around. Well, maybe my mother.”

"She is the Chancellor," he says, shrugging. "And most of us can't get away with directly disobeying her orders."

“I suppose you aren’t her daughter.” Clarke chuckles. “I’ll be back in no time to take the fall for our disobedience, but in the meantime I have faith in you. Keep them safe, Bell. Tell me if you need me, and I’ll see you soon.” She pulls away and looks him in the eye. “I promise.”

"I'll hold you to that," he says, and even as he pulls away, he takes her hand. "And I'm serious - take care of yourself." The way he says it, and the way he looks at her, immediately brings the bag under her bed to mind.

“I’ll do what I have to,” she says, just as seriously, "but I’ll be fine. I mean it, I have a place here. However odd it may be. And Lexa,” she admits, “did drag me here on the back of a horse. It would seem counterproductive to put me in harm’s way now.”

He laughs at that - outright laughs - and pulls her into a final, quick hug. "Good point," he laughs, and starts to back up towards the buggie. "Just remember you're not alone in this. Okay? I'm here, _we're_ here, if you need help."

“I know. Same here.” Clarke watches him strap into the front seat and Octavia beside him. Naturally Raven has her own buggie and Clarke hears her click the restraints into place behind her. She backs up so she can see both cars roar into gear. “I’ll see you in a few months,” she has to yell over the engines. “Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”

Raven flaps a lazy salute in response, and with all three of them giving a wave, the trucks kick into gear. It takes a minute of maneuvering to get them both facing the right direction, but once they are, she sees only silhouettes of hands through the rear windshield. With engines roaring in a way she's never heard and snow spitting up beneath the wheels, her friends turn to go. They cross the no man's land between the walls and the tree line, getting smaller and quieter with every second, and then they're beneath the branches of the nearest firs and gone - into the shadows beyond.

After a few moments, one of the two guards asks in a gruff voice, “Would you like us to escort you back to the tower, _Wanheda?”_  
  
For some reason Clarke hadn’t expected them to ask - in fact had fully expected to have to evade every guard near her since arriving. But they did ask. “No,” she says, quietly but loud enough for them to hear in the sudden silence after the roar of engines. “I’ll stay here a while.”  
  
She doesn’t see them nod and they don’t respond; she only hears them go. The crunch of their boots in snow and the total stillness after.  
  
It doesn’t feel so long to Clarke, but in fact she stands there for nearly twenty minutes. The gauges in the dirt from the wheels of the buggies is all that’s left of her friends. For another three months, at least.

Instantly, she feels alone. She’d spent four months on her own and she made that choice for her people, just as she’d made this one for them - but after finally being reunited with them, only to be separated again...the feeling of loss is overwhelming.  
  
But this was the right decision. She feels the rightness of it, even in the midst of sadness. A few months is nothing compared to the relationships and agreements she may be able to secure for her people while she’s here. To survive in this world they’ll need allies, and those allies are in Polis. She’ll do so much more good here than she could in Arkadia. Still, they’re her family, and being away from them leaves a hole that won’t be filled until she’s reunited with them.  
  
When the wind picks up and the shadows from the bare trees start to lengthen with the setting sun, Clarke finally turns and begins the walk back to the tower. Her decision will be worth it, and for more reasons than just political ones. She’s made friends here, like Helena and Ronnie and Tera. Perhaps she could even count Indra among them, on a good day. She won’t be alone - in an odd way, she has her own version of a family here.  
  
And then, of course, there’s Lexa.  
  
Clarke’s conversation with Bellamy has played over in her mind countless times since last night. She knows she didn’t make this decision because of the Commander, at least she’s come to that conclusion. But even after spending so much time ignoring her feelings, she’d let down her guard and voiced them aloud. To Bellamy, but even more annoyingly to herself. It feels like she’d been packing her feelings away into boxes and trying to hold all of them in her arms - dozens of boxes that continue to stack up, day after day after day - and suddenly, all at once, they all cascaded out of her hands. Now they’re broken open, scattered over the ground, and she’s not sure how to pick them back up. She admitted it, she has feelings for Lexa. She’s _always_ had feelings for Lexa. The problem is that those feelings include anger and pain and betrayal as well as...everything else. What’s she supposed to do with all of these incompatible, disorganized, absurdly messy emotions?  
  
Clarke’s boots crunch through the fresh snow as she aimlessly walks, not bothering to take in much of her surroundings. _Lexa_. Even as she tries to sort out her feelings, even as she does her best to logically understand what they all mean and how that should translate to action, the Commander’s name brings a warmth to her chest. It doesn’t replace the loss of her family, but it does add...something. Something new.  
  
Loss and pain and never-ending obstacles have plagued her ever since she came to this planet. Doesn’t she deserve something new? Something that isn’t all pain and exhaustion and needing to be everything for everyone? Even if it’s complicated and undefined and confusing, doesn’t she deserve to try?  
  
Clarke’s still not entirely sure. But suddenly, finally, she’s sure _enough_. And her feet start to speed up and direct her toward the tower.  
  
Before she’s really aware of it, Clarke finds herself jogging and then full out running. She’s back at the tower in nearly ten minutes, and even then she only stops to leap into the elevator and throw the switch up. By the time she’s made it to the door to Lexa’s room she’s panting, her chest pounding from exertion and dozens of other things that make her heart feel like it may launch out of her skin. But she doesn’t hesitate and the guards, as always, don’t stop her.

Lexa is just stepping back into the main room, around the curtain that separates the bedroom from the sitting room, when Clarke marches in. The Commander closes the book in her hand as soon as she sees her, concern in her eyes.  
  
"Clarke?" She asks, quickly cataloging her for possible injury. "What's wrong?"

If someone asked Clarke a minute ago if her heart could race any faster than it was, she’d say absolutely not. But the second she sees Lexa, her green eyes all sincere concern, all Clarke can hear is pounding blood in her ears, a rapid pulse overtaking every nerve ending. The out of control sensation is close to a panic attack but it feels the opposite of scary. In fact, it feels _right_.  
  
Clarke rarely wastes time second guessing and doesn’t start now. She barely pauses at Lexa’s question and in just a few seconds is as much in Lexa’s space as she’s ever been.  
  
The other woman takes a step back and goes rigidly still as Clarke strides up to her, stopping only when their bodies are maybe two inches apart. Clarke’s hands move of their own accord, one cupping the side of Lexa’s now clenched jaw and the other gently holding the back of her neck, bringing their faces even closer together. She can feel Lexa’s breath hitch, her mouth just centimeters from Clarke’s.  
  
“Tell me to stop,” Clarke whispers, searching Lexa’s eyes. As confident as she now feels, the few times Clarke has touched Lexa over the past week - and the way she flinched away every time - doesn’t slip her mind. “If you want me to stop, just say so and I will.”

Lexa remains impossibly still, meaning Clarke is especially aware of the way her jaw tenses beneath her hand when she gulps. She hardly seems to be breathing, and there is something that looks like fear in her eyes...but also something else, something that she is fighting back as they flash down to Clarke's mouth.  
  
"Clarke..." she says again, and her voice, quiet, breathless, breaks around the name. But she doesn't step away.

Clarke’s body aches to move, the muscles in her hands tight from the effort of forcing them to stay in place. Instead she moves slowly, and when they do finally come together it’s painfully gentle. Clarke exhales in relief as their lips touch, something that was coiled tight inside her unraveling in a rush.

Lexa's response is hesitant, at first; Clarke can feel the reservation in the hold of her body, in the way her lips move _oh so_ carefully against hers. She lifts her free hand to close around Clarke's wrist, and when they pull away a moment later, Clarke realizes that she's trembling. The Commander of the Twelve Clans, the veritable ruler of the known world, is _trembling_ beneath her touch.  
  
"Are you certain about this?" she breathes, green eyes earnest, scared - desperate, even. "Clarke, if we do this..."

Clarke gives the smallest of nods. She’s breathless and panting, and it’s only partially from sprinting across the city. “I know,” she says between breaths. “I know.”  
  
Clarke’s thoughts are jumbled and flying through her mind, and even if she could identify all of them she wouldn’t know how to convey them all. “I’m here...” her heart is pounding in her ears so loud it’s almost too hard to think. “Please, Lexa,” she breathes, and pours everything into those two words, hoping somehow Lexa will understand.

Lexa's lips part as her eyes move across Clarke's face - and then all at once, something in her breaks open. The book she's holding hits the ground beside their feet, and she surges forward like a cresting wave that breaks across Clarke's body. The hand around Clarke's wrist tightens its grip, and Lexa's newly freed hand finds Clarke's hip just as her mouth crashes against hers.

Clarke kisses Lexa back just as fervently. She grips the back of her neck and pulls her impossibly closer, crushing their lips together, and moves her other hand down to grip Lexa’s waist. They clutch at each other, unable to get close enough, and the force of their movements puts Clarke slightly off balance. She’s only vaguely aware of how close they are to the wall behind them but she pushes Lexa back several paces and shoves her shoulders against the wood, a little harder than she intends.

The force of it separates them for a moment, and gives Clarke a momentary view of Lexa's face. She makes a sound as her back hits the wall, something deep in her throat that tugs at the depths of Clarke. Lexa's hands, forced to release their hold on her by the sudden movement, splay against the wood to steady herself for the moment it takes Clarke to close the distance between them again. Then they find purchase on Clarke's hips again, pulling them against her own; the last thing Clarke sees before her lips find Lexa's is the hungry, desperate need in her eyes.

At first, Clarke is utterly unable to focus. Lexa’s mouth is all softness and heat and tastes somehow exactly the way her skin smells. Clarke runs her hands down Lexa’s sides, memorizing the shape of her as their bodies press closer and closer together. But it still doesn’t feel close enough. Her fingers struggle for a few second to find the hem of Lexa’s shirt, but she quickly pulls it free of her pants. Lexa moves her arms up and they break apart just long enough for Clarke to pull the shirt over her head. She takes the opportunity to quickly pull the cloth binder over her breasts up and over Lexa’s head as well, which means she doesn’t fully process the tattoo on Lexa’s chest until it’s bare in front of her.  
  
A single, black tongue of flame rests on her sternum. Clarke pauses, still panting, to take it in: the tattoos, both the new one on her chest that Clarke traces with a finger, and the familiar cuff around her bicep; the curves of her body, her collarbone and breasts and strong stomach muscles. Clarke suddenly aches, deep in every cell of her body.

Lexa stands watching, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. When Clarke's fingers press to the ink on her breastbone, she stiffens and - for a brief moment - looks as though she might pull away. But the impulse is overcome as quickly as it appears, and Lexa's hand covers Clarke's, pressing her palm to her skin. She closes her eyes, and Clarke can feel the careful breath in that she takes, acclimating herself to her touch. Beneath her skin, Lexa's heart races.  
  
When her eyes open again, she cups Clarke's jaw and leans in to kiss her again, softly, fleeting. Then she pulls away, and her hand closes around Clarke's. "Come here," she says, and slides away from the wall to draw Clarke through the curtain and into her bedroom.

Clarke allows herself to be led. Past the curtain, Clarke sees again the Commander’s bed, impossibly larger still than the one in her own room. It’s been made recently, presumably by Elena or one of her minions, and the clearly ancient carvings in the headboard are even more pronounced in the low light of dozens of candles placed around the room.  
  
“It’s like you knew I was coming,” Clarke attempts to tease, but it comes out as a whisper. It feels as though speaking any louder would shatter whatever alternate reality they’ve entered. A reality where, despite everything that’s happened, Clarke is still here, watching the movement of Lexa’s bare shoulder blades as she follows the Commander into her bedroom.

The view offers more tattoos to Clarke's eyes, including a fuller picture of the tattoo on her other arm, spotted so briefly on the First Fall. Interwoven patterns of black ink pass over her shoulder and onto her side, where they meet the trunk of a tree. The branches are bare and stark, their beauty in their angles and twisting patterns. Along Lexa's spine, a thinner geometric pattern comprised of circles and lines disappears beneath her hair. Her right side is bare by comparison, sporting a handful of small, scarified lines.  
  
"A happy coincidence, then," Lexa says, and turns to face Clarke again. They stand beside her bed now, her dark hair pulled over one bare shoulder. With her hold on Clarke's hand she draws her closer, and smiles a fuller smile than Clarke has ever seen on her.

The sight feels precious, and not only because of where they are now. Clarke has rarely seen much more than a small smile from the Commander, and she could count those on one hand. Less than one hand. It makes Clarke’s face break into a grin in kind.  
  
Bringing Lexa’s mouth back to hers is so tempting, but instead Clarke puts a hand under her chin and gently guides her head up and to the side, exposing her neck. She places a kiss on her jaw, and trails her lips down the length of Lexa’s throat. “I've come to suspect that you have these candles lit constantly, so maybe not a coincidence,” Clarke mutters against her skin, and feels her shiver.  
  
Clarke’s hands are gentle as they explore Lexa’s hips, her stomach, her ribs. The texture of her skin, the grooves and raised lines that mark her body. At some point her mouth finds Lexa’s again and she pushes her, not hesitantly but in a slow enough way that she could easily resist, back until the top of her thighs meet the edge of the bed, forcing her into a half-sitting position.

Lexa doesn't need much persuasion to fall the rest of the way, leaving her sitting on the edge of the bed with her hands cupping Clarke's jaw, holding her to her. When Clarke pulls away, just for a moment, she catches a look of utter adoration in Lexa's eyes - the kind one might reserve for something holy. Almost as though, even as she presses back and into Clarke's lips when she kisses her again, she can't quite believe that she's real.  
  
Clarke settles into the space between her knees, and Lexa makes use of the newfound nearness to push her jacket off her shoulders. It falls into a puddle on the floor, neither woman particularly concerned for it, and Lexa's lips trail the edge of Clarke's jaw as it does. They meander further then, her breath coming faster against Clarke's skin, and settle near her pulse point as Lexa begins to tug at the hem of her shirt. Clarke doesn’t think twice about it - she feels Lexa’s fingers pulling at her shirt and she instantly pulls it up and over her own head. In the same motion she uses both hands to unclip her bra and lets it fall to the floor at their feet.  
  
Being naked in front of someone isn’t a new sensation for Clarke, but this is different. It doesn’t just feel like baring her skin, it feels like something...else. Something more. And the way Lexa’s eyes rove over her body, taking in every inch of her that she can see, only confirms the feeling.  
  
Even as Clarke leans forward, Lexa’s arms eagerly wrap around her, exploring the muscles and bones on her back with her fingers as she falls back and lies on the bed. Neither woman needs instruction - Clarke wraps an arm around Lexa’s middle and pulls her farther up the bed even as Lexa pushes herself backward.  
  
The feeling of their nearly naked bodies pressed together is so absolutely fucking _right_ that Clarke’s breath catches and the muscles in her arms holding her up tremble for a moment.

"Are you alright?" Lexa's eyes are immediately open and on hers. Her hands, having just been pressing into the lines of her shoulder blades, now fall idle to Clarke's still clothed hips. Her thumbs sit at the edge of her waistband, but otherwise they don't move. "Is this...okay?"

Clarke takes an extra few seconds to commit the image in front of her to memory. Lexa, with her hair fanned around her like a halo. Her eyes half concerned, half hungry. The way her head tilting slightly when she’s searching Clarke’s expression accentuates the curve of her neck.  
  
“You’re so beautiful,” Clarke says, thankful to hear only the slightest hitch in her voice, “and this could not be more okay.”

Lexa's face goes crimson, and her lips - now slightly darker themselves, swollen from kissing - pull once more into a wide smile.  
  
"I have often dreamt of this moment," she confesses, and her eyes drop below Clarke's chin. She takes Clarke's words as permission and her hands begin to move back up Clarke's sides, the tips of her fingers tracing feather-light along Clarke's abdomen and over her ribcage. Goosebumps rise in their wake.  
  
"More often than I should admit," Lexa continues. She chuckles softly at herself, and her hands and eyes both come to rest on the center of Clarke's chest, just beneath her collarbone. "Only to discover now that my imagination could not hope to be up to the task."

“I never let myself think of it. In dreams or otherwise,” Clarke says. Lexa’s smile turns down just slightly and Clarke cups her cheek, rubs her thumb across her cheekbone. “I never let myself think of it, because I knew if I did I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. And I had to be sure.”

Lexa gives an understanding, empathetic nod. "I know the feeling," she says quietly, and turns into Clarke's touch. She stays there a moment, nose pressed into Clarke's wrist, breathing in at a much easier pace.  
  
When at last Lexa lifts her face again her eyes settle on Clarke's. Then the hands on Clarke's chest lift up around her neck, and Lexa tugs her down for another searing kiss.

Clarke takes a minute to relish the feeling of Lexa beneath her. It’s not an unpleasant task, to make herself wait, but now that she’s here - finally here, with Lexa - she’s just so _impatient_. The knee between Lexa’s legs bends upward and presses between her thighs while Clarke’s hands trace the waistband of her pants, pushing them down as far as they’ll go without unbuttoning them.  
  
Clarke can feel Lexa smile against her lips after she makes a particularly aggressive shove. “Enough,” Clarke grunts, and tugs up and away from Lexa's hands. That draws another chuckle from the Commander, whose head rolls back against the pillows behind her as Clarke sits back on her knees. Lexa's eyes settle on her again when she flips the buttons of Lexa’s pants open and unzips them, an easy and radiantly happy smile on her lips. “Is this okay?” Clarke asks, echoing Lexa’s earlier question.

"More than okay," Lexa breathes in return. Her breath had hitched again when Clarke's knee pressed upwards, and hasn't returned to normal since. Her smile goes crooked, becoming a smirk as her callused hands run up Clarke's front. "Though I would ask that if you're going to be impatient, then be quick about it."

Clarke grins and, with one or two practiced tugs, has Lexa’s pants in her hands. She quickly discards them and kisses Lexa again, pleased at the satisfied hum in the back of Lexa’s throat.  
  
“I promise,” Clarke murmurs, and kisses Lexa’s jaw, her neck. Bites and licks her way down her collarbone. “I promise I can be patient.” She makes her way down Lexa’s chest and nips at her breasts, earning a hiss of pleasure from the Commander. “I can,” Clarke insists between kisses down her stomach, “but not today.”

By the time she settles between her thighs, Lexa has one hand in Clarke's hair and the other splayed out, fingers tensed, against the furs beneath them. When Clarke finds her mark, a moan primal and ragged and utterly unrestrained pulls from Lexa's throat. Her muscles tense even at first touch, the hand in Clarke's hair tightening its hold.  
  
"Clarke," she gasps, and it's in that same raw, unchecked tone.

The way her name sounds when Lexa says it has always done things to Clarke. Subtle, quiet things, but things just the same. This time though...she growls, low in the back of her throat, at the sensation it inspires. Clarke presses her tongue harder against Lexa’s core and grips her thighs, eliciting a groan from the Commander.  
  
Clarke has never spent much time considering exactly what Lexa would taste like - she’s never allowed herself even the tamest fantasies. But if she had thought about it, she’s confident she would never have imagined anything even close to the reality. She could, she’s quite confident, literally go down on this woman all day.

She does take her time; her impatience abates long enough for her to do that much. And there is so much to enjoy in the little sounds that she can draw from Lexa's mouth, the little jerks and twitches her tongue can command of her body. _Heda Leksa,_ renowned the world over for her brilliance and control, begins to unravel at her behest. And she _revels_ in it.  
  
The pattern is slow, at first. Firm, but luxurious, she traces out Lexa's innermost parts as though she is creating a map for herself, one she hopes to revisit again and again even as she drinks her in. But the more Lexa strains, the more her patience wanes. She picks up the pace, finding the places that make Lexa tug at her hair and grip the bedsheets and exploiting them with purpose. Her name finds its way out of Lexa's mouth more than once, each time a little more breathless, a little less recognizable - and then all at once it's a cry. Clarke presses into the same spot again and again, arms beneath Lexa's thighs and hands locked around her hips to hold on as she rocks against her. When Lexa comes, with the most delicious sound on her lips, there's a moment that Clarke thinks she might suffocate - but she holds on nonetheless.

Clarke imagines she would gladly pass out if it meant hearing those sounds - again and again and again. But for now, when Lexa’s muscles cease spasming and her breaths return roughly to normal, Clarke lets her go. She climbs back up the bed and pauses, again drinking in the sight before her. Clarke has seen Lexa in little clothing - that night recently where she was wearing only a thin black robe comes immediately to mind - but nothing she's seen before beats this experience.  
  
The Commander is positively exquisite and Clarke’s eyes hungrily track the length of her body. She’s still in disbelief that this is real, and at the same time every cell beneath her skin vibrates with affirmation. Lexa’s body is marked and scarred; as lived in as a body could be, and she’s only twenty. But she’s so beautiful and at least for right now, for this minute, she’s all hers.  
  
Clarke covers Lexa’s body with her own and nuzzles into her neck. She can feel Lexa’s rapid pulse subside slowly against her nose, and kisses the spot where she feels it pounding hardest.

Lexa is still panting when her arm, beneath Clarke's neck, curls up around the back of her head. Her fingers sink into her hair once more, even as the taste of her and of the sweat that gathers on her skin lingers on Clarke's tongue.  
  
"I have to admit," Lexa says, gulping down the dryness in her throat. She blows a breath out through parted lips, her eyes closed. "I was not anticipating that."

“No?” Clarke smiles and lifts her head up, so she can see Lexa’s eyes. “What were you anticipating then?”

"If I am honest?" The Commander opens her eyes then, and tips her head to look at Clarke in turn. "That I would have died before I ever had the chance of experiencing you."  
  
She rolls her over then, her lithe, muscled frame pushing Clarke onto her back and settling across her side in turn. "And certainly not that you would be so experienced."

“Not as experienced as you may think.” Clarke wraps her arms around Lexa, pulling her body down against her own as much as possible. “But while I may not have dreamt about it, I’ve never felt more inspired to excel.”

"I do appreciate that about you..." Lexa murmurs, a small smile tipping the corner of her lips. Her eyes stray from Clarke's, looking down over her bare torso. Her hand follows, tracing a path down Clarke's sternum, over a breast, across her stomach. The line is drawn in the lightest of touches, the very tips of Lexa's fingers brushing across her sensitive skin, coming to rest at the top of her pants. "There are few people I know who can turn ambition into reality the way that you can."

“I’m...” Clarke’s breath catches as Lexa’s fingers brush a particularly sensitive spot on her hip. “I’m glad you consider that a positive quality,” she manages to get out. “It’s one I can’t seem to help,” Clarke pushes a few unruly locks back behind Lexa’s ear and runs her hand through her hair. “Particularly around you.”

Green eyes return to Clarke's, a dark eyebrow raising above one. Lexa's thumb runs over her hip bone again. "Is that so?"

“You do tend to inspire strong feelings.” Clarke covers Lexa’s hand with her own and guides it farther, past the waistband of her pants and down. She moans quietly when Lexa’s hand finds the space between her thighs, already wet. “Feelings like that,” she gasps.

Lexa sucks a breath in, as though she's the one who had been touched. She swallows, letting her finger dip into the warmth of her.  
  
"Strong feelings," Lexa repeats, breathless once more.  
  
Withdrawing her hand, Lexa puts her finger to her lips and tastes her. She hums, and sits up. "We need to get you out of these," she declares.

Her hands work rapidly to undo Clarke's boots, which Clarke then toes the heels of to kick off while Lexa turns to her belt and pants. And yet, despite Clarke's eagerness, she hardly knocks her boots off the bed before she wraps a hand around Lexa’s neck and pulls her back toward her, unwilling to go too long without their lips pressed together. Lexa is happy enough to oblige, though it makes her work a little more clumsy; seemingly every muscle in Lexa's back and abdomen hardens as she balances her weight on her knees while leaning forward over Clarke, all so that her hands can continue freeing Clarke of her remaining clothing. When at last she's managed to work Clarke's pants and underwear down around her thighs, Lexa sits back, panting, and tugs them both the rest of the way down. She discards them with a flourish and falls on Clarke again; this time, her hands find Clarke's breasts.

Clarke _knows_ that she has amazing breasts. She's caught Lexa looking at them before, though would never allow herself to really acknowledge that fact - and now, with the weight of one in her hand, Lexa makes a sound in her throat that Clarke doubts is entirely voluntary. It makes her grin a predatory little grin, feeling like the cat that got the cream...until Lexa lowers her head and draws the other into her mouth, and its Clarke's turn to make an involuntary sound. 

Unlike Clarke, Lexa is happy to take her time. She explores Clarke’s hips and inner thighs with her fingers, almost painfully slowly. When Lexa does finally press her palm against her core, the muscles in Clarke’s stomach spasm and her fingernails dig into Lexa’s shoulder blades.  
  
“Lexa,” Clarke breathes, and moans again as the Commander presses harder.

 _All_ of Lexa responds to that sound. Her arm tightens where it's wound around Clarke's back, her hips press forward against the side of Clarke's, and even as her fingers find their way between her folds, it seems the Commander is doing all she can to keep their bodies touching in every way possible. She kisses Clarke again, swallowing down the gasps and moans drawn by exploring fingers. Those fingers, long accustomed to wrapping around weapons of war, part her with a gentleness that makes her writhe.  
  
"Clarke..." Lexa breathes against her lips, before trailing her mouth down to the underside of Clarke's jaw, the side of her neck.

Clarke pants with exertion, half hoping she’ll hold out just a little bit longer and half desperate to come. Her left hand grips Lexa’s shoulder blade with increasing strength, producing red lines to match the black from her tattoo, while her right moves from gripping the fur blankets to tangling themselves in Lexa’s hair and back again.  
  
Lexa’s movements may be slow but they’re also deliberate. After several minutes, Clarke has been reduced to pants, gasps, and uncontrollable squirming. Finally, _finally_ , just as she thinks she can’t take it anymore and every nerve ending in her body must be on fire, she whispers Lexa’s name again. Only a whisper, but the Commander instantly returns her mouth to Clarke’s and as she comes, her cries of pleasure are swallowed by Lexa’s kiss.

Their bodies cleave together in that moment: Clarke clings desperately to Lexa's shoulders and back, while Lexa's arm tightens around her, holding her close as she comes apart. Her hand continues to move between them, inexorably consistent as Clarke shudders and shakes beneath her, guiding her through until her muscles begin to relax and the last of the waves of orgasm run their course. When they do, Lexa is panting as well. Her chest rises and falls with Clarke's as her hand now settles on her hip and pulls every angle of Clarke's body into direct contact with her own. She presses her face into Clarke's neck, nosing aside locks of golden blonde to be able to breathe her in.  
  
A moment later, despite everything else there is for her to pay attention to, process, and experience...Clarke feels a drop of something wet and warm fall against her shoulder.

Her first instinct is concern. She shifts some of her weight onto her side, forcing Lexa's head back up slightly, and whispers, “Lexa? What’s wrong?”

Sure enough, Lexa's head tips up and there are _tears_ in her eyes. Somewhat contradictory, however, is the smile that lights up her face.  
  
"Nothing," she says, and her voice wavers for a moment as she shakes her head. "Nothing is wrong - quite the opposite, I promise you." She props herself up on her arm again, her other hand lifting to wipe the tears away before they can fall. "I am sorry, I - I'm not sure why this is happening."

The sight makes Clarke’s heart ache. “As long as you’re alright.” Her hand moves up to cup Lexa’s cheek and her thumb brushes the few tears left away. She pulls Lexa’s face gently toward hers and leans forward, kissing her softly. “Can I do anything?” she asks in a whisper.

Lexa shakes her head, gently enough that she does not dislodge Clarke's hand, and rests her forehead against hers. "You already have."  
  
Her confusion must be clear on her face, because when Lexa meets her eyes again, she smiles. "I...never thought I would have this again," she says quietly, and pulls back so she can clearly see Clarke's face. "This experience, this...intimacy. And you are so beautiful, Clarke, I--"

“Stop, you’ll make me blush,” Clarke teases. In truth her cheeks have turned a little pink, but from sex or from Lexa’s words she doesn’t know. “I...can relate. Being here, with you, is something I never thought I would have.” Clarke traces Lexa’s jawbone with a gentle finger, still memorizing her without thinking. Still mapping every inch of her. “But we deserve this, at least. Don’t we?”

Lexa gathers her hair between her hands and pulls it over both shoulders, then lays down on her side. With her hair splayed out behind her, and sweat still drying on her bare skin, it can be difficult to reconcile this view of her with the blood-spattered, heavily armored Commander that the rest of the world recognizes. Yet, the inquisitive look she levels on her just then is so distinctly _Lexa_ , there can be little question that the two are one in the same. "Deserve?" she repeats. "What do you mean?"

Clarke turns on her side as well to face her, one arm folded up beneath her neck to support her head. With the other hand she traces her fingers absently over Lexa’s side, lingering on the line of scars there.  
  
“After everything,” Clarke says after a moment, "everything we’ve been through. There’s so little happiness people like you and I reserve for ourselves, and any we get is so fleeting...” Clarke thinks of Finn. Of seeing her mother again only to be separated, of being with her friends but only for a day. Everything she has, she has to be prepared to give up. And nobody understands that the way Lexa does. “I think we deserve to take it where we can.”

"Is that what drew you here today?" Lexa hasn't been able to take her eyes off Clarke's face but, no longer satisfied with just looking, she stretches out a hand to touch her cheek. "Taking what happiness you can?"

“Yes, I think so.” Clarke nuzzles into Lexa’s touch. “That and exhaustion. Denying my feelings for you has turned into a full time job this past week.”

Lexa doesn't seem to know how to respond to that information. She's pleased, that much is clear - her lips quirk up into a small smile again - but this is a topic neither of them have broached. The one time they came anywhere close, it ended almost as soon as it began: brief, glorious, and ultimately, utterly misguided. The two of them had been more or less at war with each other for most of the time since then, even if their people weren't, and now...  
  
"I would be lying, if I said that I had wanted to make it an easy one for you," Lexa admits, and she drops her eyes with some modicum of guilt. "But I do apologize for any undue stress I might have caused during your stay here. There were good reasons to bring you here, but selfish ones, as well."

“So you’ve said.” Even now, Clarke’s thoughts turn darker. She’s spent so long pushing away any feelings for Lexa and embracing her anger. Now, she’s attempting to do the opposite. It’s not hard, not anymore, just...unpleasant. That life and reality could so easily intrude on them here. _Even here._  
  
“I believe you. You wouldn’t have brought me here if you didn’t think it was necessary.” Clarke’s fingers move up to trace the curve of Lexa’s breasts and collarbone. “And I’m glad I’m here now. I’m not so delusional that I think this will fix everything, but I’m...” she swallows. “I’m willing to try.”

There. It took her nearly six months, but at last she really means it. It’s not a guarantee, but it’s all she has.

And it's all Lexa needs to hear. Clarke's touch had caused her to draw in her breath, but it's her words that draw out her smile once more. She surges forward, rolling off her side and pushing Clarke onto her back with the force of the kiss she presses to her mouth. It is warm and fiery, and enough to steal Clarke's breath away.  
  
If the Commander had any duties scheduled that evening, she does not attend to them. Other than the duties she owes Clarke in that bed, of course; those she lends herself to with a dedication and stamina that Clarke has never seen in another person. In the end, it is only exhaustion that could put an end to them, and the last thing that Clarke remembers of the night is settling, panting and boneless, into Lexa's shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! That's a wrap on part one. Thank you for all the support and love you've shown us, whether you've been here from the beginning or hopped on for today's update. (We see you, and we know what you're after, you horny heroes.) 
> 
> We'll be back in around two weeks' time for the start of part two! Be sure to subscribe to one of us to get the notification. 
> 
> ...what? You didn't think we'd just let them be happy, did you?


End file.
